


(your heartbeat) rang true inside my bones

by flimsy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry goes as Louis' date for a weekend wedding. He ends up taking the role a bit too seriously.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Hey,” Harry hears himself say just as Louis climbs back into the car. He ducks down, holding onto the roof to look at Louis who cocks his brow at him and says, “What?”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I meant it,” Harry starts. “Like, I’d do it. I’d be your date for the wedding. If it’d make you feel less awful about being there and if you want me to, I’ll do it. I promise I’ll be good.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(your heartbeat) rang true inside my bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estrella30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/gifts).



***

It’s cool in the back of Niall’s studio, quiet except for the hum of the computers, the voices from outside. It’s not _cold_ \- it wouldn’t be with 35C outside and the A.C. running on minimum because they’re all sat under the big tree in Niall’s garden - but it’s noticeably cooler than outside, where the is sun burning down their backs. Light filters through the blinds, illuminating particles of dust like a barrier floating in Harry’s way, and he falters for a moment, rubbing at the sweat-sticky back of his neck, before stepping through it and out into the hall leading to the studio kitchenette. 

There’s a six pack of beer in the fridge and Harry grabs it along with a few bottles of coke, and water for Liam, squeezing the beers under his armpit to have room for the bottles in his hands. 

He makes it outside just as Liam’s face scrunches up in a laugh and Niall by the grill starts laughing too, holding his tummy, almost toppling over. Zayn cocks his brow at Harry and shakes his head, grinning as if no explanation is needed. Harry shrugs at him, unloads his haul and grabs a beer, twisting the bottle open and taking a long sip, sighing happily. 

“Thanks, man,” Liam says, patting his shoulder and grabbing a beer and water, rubbing at his face. They toast once everyone’s grabbed a bottle, Louis complaining when his bottlecap gets stuck and he’s too impatient to untwist it - Zayn helps -, and Niall from his spot by the grill. They’re all a bit tipsy already: not too much, but appropriately for an afternoon barbecue.

Harry sinks back into his chair, taking another generous sip from his beer; they’re supposed to be writing songs or - at least - to be talking about the new album, but as usual in these past couple of months, their meeting has devolved into something entirely and wonderfully unproductive. With no tour coming up and no deadline set it’s easy to lose focus.

“It wasn’t all like-,” Liam starts suddenly, shaking his head. “She was great, you know? She really was.” He shrugs again, looks atypically wistful for a moment and then groans. “C’mon lads, don’t leave me hanging now. I can’t be the only one with a story like that.”

“What kind of story?” Harry asks, tilting his head. He pulls his leg up and hooks the heel of his boot into the ledge of his chair, leaning backwards. “I was inside, I didn’t hear.”

“We don’t do rehashs,” Louis says with a half-grin, eyes flicking to Liam and back to Harry, smile growing softer for a moment. “Maybe you should tell us a story?”

“What _kind_ of story?” Harry repeats, annoyed that they’re making him work for it because he hates not being involved in something the group talks about, and they know it, too. Zayn, however, seems to take pity on him. 

“Exes,” he says. “We’re talking about, you know, embarrassing things that happened and stuff.” He smiles a bit, tapping a cig from his battered soft-pack. Distracted, Harry wonders for a moment why he still buys those, concludes that it must be because they simply look _cooler_ , then turns back to the matter at hand. “Exes?” he says slowly, recounting recent encounters in his head. 

“Or ex-one-night-stands,” Liam elaborates. “Either way, you are not getting out of this one.” He gives Harry a pointed look and Harry rolls his eyes.

“I don’t want to get out of this one, Liam,” he imitates him, crossing one arm over his chest. He taps a finger against his lip once, contemplating. “One time, I drank Taylor’s washing up liquid because I thought it was juice. Spent the evening being sick after that. And another time, I was at this hotel in Houston, you remember that Zayn, Emma? The brunette? I accidentally dropped her knickers in the toilet and had to blow-dry them while she was asleep.” 

Louis snorts into his beer and tries to hide his smile, and Liam laughs and shakes his head. “You could at least pretend to be embarrassed, mate,” he says.

Harry ducks his head and shrugs; it doesn’t bother him much, mostly because he knows just as many embarrassing things about the other lads. There is very little that stays hidden on tour, no matter how hard you try. 

“Did she find out?” Zayn asks after a moment. He’s sunken into his chair now, looking like a big, lazy cat lounging in the sun. “That you’d dropped her slip in the loo?”

Harry shrugs again. “Dunno, mate. She never put them on again in the morning.” He can’t help but grin at the memory of that day and continues with a lopsided grin, “She was a bit distracted.” 

“Sheesh, Harry,” Louis says. He’s finished his beer and sets the empty bottle on the table, uncurling his legs to reach for another. His hair has gotten long again in the front where he refuses to let Lou trim it and Harry likes the way it falls into his eyes; it reminds him of their days back when they were living together and distracts him long enough for Louis to notice and give him a funny look. 

“Didn’t do it to distract her, just a spur of the moment thing, you know. I was gonna tell her,” he says belatedly, pouting.

Liam sighs loudly and tosses a bottle cap at him. “You’re cheating and you’re clearly not embarrassed,” he says with a frown. “Show-off.” 

“Am _not_.” Harry frowns back at him and sets his empty bottle on the floor, reaching for another just as Niall returns from the porch with a plateful of food. 

“What’s going on?” he asks and Harry shrugs and snatches a sausage from the plate, wolfing it down. 

“They’re being mean to me,” he says, licking the grease off his fingers, watching Liam’s reaction. 

“He’s cheating. There’s rules to this, everyone’s got to be embarrassed, right?” Liam continues, brows drawn together. He doesn’t look entirely serious, but Harry knows he’d rather not be left feeling like he’s the only one who’s mucked up. 

“I’m _fairly_ embarrassed,” Harry says slowly, opening his beer. It takes two or three tries because his fingers are all greasy; Niall makes a half-displeased noise and hands him a napkin from the stack he’s brought along with paper plates and cutlery. “Maybe somebody else can have a turn now.” Harry looks around; neither Zayn nor Louis seem very enthused which makes Harry think that the entire thing was likely Liam’s idea in the first place.

“I’ve done all the cooking,” Niall says. “Do I have to tell a story?”

“You’re excused.” Zayn grabs a plate and starts shoveling meat onto it. Harry watches, then grabs a plate for himself, tapping it against the flat of his hand slowly, trying to decide what he feels like eating next. “Tommo?” Zayn says around a mouthful of bread. 

Louis pulls a face and shakes his head. “Nah, bro.” 

“Come on.” Harry nudges him, almost losing balance, but manages to catch himself against the table just in time. “We promise not to tell.” He crosses his fingers and shows them off, trying to look sincere but Louis’ face is a tell-tale sign of his failure. 

“Nothing to tell,” Louis says, shrugging. “Really.” He looks a bit defiant, grumpy even, and is poking at the meat on his plate with one the plastic forks. Harry can see that he’s not in the mood to talk about any of his exes, and Harry gets it. There aren’t many casual flings that Louis can fall back on for a funny story, not like Harry can. He’s always been more focused, more determined to make just one thing work and make it work well, perfectly even, unlike Harry who feels happy just by connecting with somebody in one way or another.

“Come on, Tommo,” Liam echoes Harry. “There’s got to be something.” Louis scrunches up his nose and shakes his head.

“Wound still fresh, eh?” Niall asks. He flops down on the sole remaining chair, wiping his hands on his apron. It reads _Chef Mate_ and features a rook holding a spatula; Harry gave it to him for his birthday. 

Louis shoots Niall a look that could singe down an entire forest. “Three months is plenty of time to recover,” he says. Harry feels his brows scrunch up in doubt, remembering Louis’ other breakups. Louis seems to notice because he gives him another burning look, and Harry retreats back into his chair and busies himself with a beautifully grilled chicken breast and another couple of swigs from his beer. 

“What’s he up to now anyway?” Liam asks. He’s got a tiny bit of ketchup stuck to the corner of his mouth and Harry stares at it transfixed, wondering when he’ll notice and if he should tell him, then manages to draw himself away and focus back on the conversation. 

“Eh,” Louis says. “Same as always, I guess.” He shakes his head. “He’s got a girlfriend now.” There’s a flicker in his face, a sudden tightness to his mouth that Harry doesn’t miss and he wants to reach out and squeeze his arm but then doesn’t, hesitating because it’s not really something they do anymore.

Zayn seems to have fewer reservations. “That sucks, bro,” he says, then pats Louis’ shoulder and Louis huffs out a laugh. 

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m blissfully single now.” He doesn’t look blissful at all, and strangely enough it gives Harry a vivid flashback to being curled up in the lounge in the tour bus last summer, and Louis emerging from the front in trackies and a vest, looking tired but happy. Harry had asked him what was up and Louis’ subsequent explanation that he’d just spent an hour talking to his _boyfriend_ was accompanied by a tiny, almost mischievous grin that settled the fact that no questions would be asked, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of coming out, like he didn’t want want any of them making a big deal out of it either. He stuck to that - the no questions policy - even after the media storm that followed his introduction of Jake as his date at the Brits that same year and their breakup a few months later.

“I’m sure you’ve got all the boys lined up now,” Harry says and dislodges his feet from their crouched up position on the chair to give Louis a tiny, gentle prod. 

“Loads,” Louis says dryly, clearly having misread Harry’s attempt to cheer him up. “Had to hire a lorry driver to cart them away from my house every morning _and_ night. It’s a bloody inconvenience. Can’t leave me house without stumbling over a fit guy.” 

Harry snorts at that, but decides against an attempt to point out that Louis does actually have boys lined up for him wherever he goes. He finishes the remaining, now stale inch of his beer and reaches for a fresh one; it’s his third and he can feel the alcohol already, a weight on top of his brows, body sluggish. It’s the heat and the fact that he hasn’t had any fluids other than this, but the setting sun is making him feel lazy and languid and in the mood for a good old buzz. 

“You know,” Niall starts, dabbing at his mouth, “I’ve got this friend, you should meet him, he’s a good lad. Fit, I guess.” 

Louis groans and drops his head back against the chair, arms splayed out and playing dead for a moment, and Niall laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all day. 

“Did you decide about the wedding, Lou?” Zayn asks, almost out of nowhere. He’s polished off his plate and has gone back to beer, brows raised in question over the rim of his bottle. “Are you going?” 

“The wedding?” Harry can’t help but ask and Louis makes yet another dying whale noise and then sits up again. 

“My cousin is getting married, and seeing as she’s one of _his_ best friends-” He cuts himself off again, upper lip curling. “Mum said that I have to go since she won’t be able to.” 

“Oh,” Harry says slowly. “So, you think he’ll be there and he’ll also bring his new girlfriend, right?” 

Louis half-shrugs, half-nods, but the look on his face is enough to tell Harry how very unhappy he is with all of it. 

“You’ve just got to show up with a hot boyfriend,” Liam suggests. “You know, show him what he’s missing and all.” 

Harry nods in agreement and tosses back another swig of beer. “That’s actually a good idea. Make him jealous!”

“I don’t want to make him jealous.” Louis shakes his head, looking from Harry to Liam to Niall, who closes his mouth mid-breath. He looks down, brows furrowing, and finally says, “I’m okay. I don’t think it was meant to last. It’ll just suck to see him with somebody else, that’s all. But I’m _fine_.” He grabs his beer and takes a few long sips as if to tell all of them that he’s done talking about it.

“You sure?” Niall asks carefully, concerned, the question that Harry feels like he himself should’ve asked instead of making stupid jokes. “It’s not usually that, you know, easy for you, right? To let go?”

Louis doesn’t answer for a long moment, and when he does it’s intentionally flippant. “I guess so, but I’m fine, honestly. I just get used to sticking around. I’m not really a hit and run kind of bloke, you know that.” 

He doesn’t look at Harry at that and it wasn’t meant for him at all, but Harry still feels like defending himself even though he knows that Louis understands how he feels about relationships and people and that it’s never anything but meaningful for him. 

Niall laughs, though, and says, “Harry, you’ve got to teach him how to love them and leave them.” He’s half-serious, fond and just a little teasing, but Harry still frowns at him.

“It’s not like I do it on purpose,” he pouts, crossing his arms. Liam leans over and pats his head, and Harry bats at his hands, finally laughing when Liam doesn’t stop. 

“Ugh,” Louis makes after a moment. “It’ll just suck a lot, one way or another.” Harry tries to get his hair back in order, watching him through his messed up fringe. 

“What if you really had a date for the wedding,” he says. “Like, not to make him jealous or anything, but just so you wouldn’t be alone and stuff. And _maybe_ also to make him a little jealous. I’d do it, you know, I’d come with.” He rubs his jaw and gives Louis a hopeful smile, but Louis just blinks at him, shaking his head, not saying anything. 

“Like you know how to take anyone on a date,” Zayn says and Harry gives him the finger, but keeps his mouth shut, wobbling to his feet. 

“I’m going to the loo,” he announces and scans everyone’s faces. “Anybody need anything from inside?”

There’s a round of requests - more beer, the cool box, proper hand-washing - and Harry makes his way back inside; when the cold air hits his skin this time, it’s far more noticeable, sending a rush of goosebumps down his spine where his T-shirt is sticking to his skin just the tiniest bit. 

He makes it to the loo, bumping into Niall’s pool table on the way, and takes a piss, one hand splayed out against the wall for balance. His head feels fuzzier here than outside and he washes his hands and splashes his face, trying to discern how drunk he really is. He figures he can do another beer or two, but should probably have some water in between. 

He finds the cool box in the kitchenette along with more beer in the fridge and then leans against the worktop to produce his phone from his jeans. Nick’s sent him a string of emoji in WhatsApp, the meaning of which elude Harry; he shakes his head and types _What if I pretend to be Louis’ boyfriend at his cousin’s wedding? Can u imagine? It would be pretty hilarious, right?_ and pockets his phone again. 

Back outside, Niall seems to have produced yet another platter of barbecued meats and sausages; the air smells like summer, a little smoky, fresh and warm, like the apple tree perched over the table. The sun has now almost vanished behind the high fence, and all that’s left of it is a peachy shimmer that bathes the garden into a twilight that Harry finds hard to adapt to at first. 

“Watch out, Haz,” Louis says out of almost nowhere, but Harry still manages to get his foot caught in the trainers lying by the door. He kicks them out of the way, grunting and drops the cool box on the ground, filling it up with beers and water from the table. 

They share another round of beers, toasting each other, and finish up the food. By the time Harry has cleared his plate, soaking up the juices with garlic bread for maximum efficiency, he’s on his fifth beer, limbs feeling heavy. Liam and Niall are talking quietly, laughing but somehow muted, as if the darkness creeping in through dusk has put an invisible damper over everything. 

Zayn is rolling a joint, brows furrowed, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, and Harry finds himself caught staring by Louis who seems surprisingly sober. He’s smiling a little, face pale in the little light that’s left. 

“You alright there, Harry?” he asks. His voice carries a tone that it now only seldom does when he’s talking to Harry but one that Harry remembers all too well. It’s the big brother voice, the one that allowed him to make it through the X-Factor. Harry huffs at himself for the thought and then nods. 

“‘m alright, I’m alright,” he replies and raises his hand in a half wave. “Could take a bit of a nap.”

“If you fall asleep here and get rained on, nobody will carry you inside,” Louis says. He’s still smiling and Harry sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Right,” Louis continues, “I think it’s time for me to go home, I’m knackered.” 

“Boo,” Zayn says without looking up from his joint. There’s two lined up on the table already, and he’s working on a third. “Was just rolling one for you, bro.”

“Next time,” Louis says. “D’you want me to give you a lift home, H? I’ve only had two beers, I’m good to drive.”

Harry groans and drops his head back against the chair at the prospect of getting up, but then nods anyway. He stumbles to his feet and gathers his belongings from the table; there’s a text from Nick lighting up the screen of his phone, but he can’t be bothered to read it right away. 

There’s a round of shoulder claps and _goodnight_ s and then Louis’ arm around his waist, leading him through the house and to Niall’s car park where Louis’ black Range Rover is parked. 

“When did you become so bloody _heavy_ ,” Louis complains and drops him against the car. It’s still warm from baking in the sun all day and Harry splays his hands out against it and rubs his back against it, sighing happily. 

“Been heavy for a long time, Tommo,” he says. “I’m a big boy, you know?” He grins at him and Louis rolls his eyes, opening the door for him to get in and rounds the car to climb into the driver’s seat. 

“Fasten your seatbelt,” he says and Harry does, fiddling with the mechanism, frowning when it refuses to click. It does after a moment and Louis starts the car, pulling out. Harry rolls his head against the backrest, watching him quietly. It used to always be Louis driving back then, before Harry had his own license and fleet of cars, when they still went places on their own without drivers and security. Louis still looks the same, though, maybe a little sharper in some places, a little wearier sometimes. He’s got a bit of a scruff now, too, and Harry rubs his own chin woefully, feeling nothing but pitiful stubble. 

He sighs deeply, closing his eyes. It’s been a while since they’ve been properly alone together. It makes Harry remember all the nights they spent staying up talking and remembers how he’d never felt this close to anyone and hasn’t really since. 

Louis slows down, however, poking his shoulder. “Do you need to be sick? Tell me before you do actually throw up all over my car.”

Harry blinks his eyes open, shaking his head in confusion. “What? No. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“Mhm,” Louis makes. He speeds up again, down brightly lit London roads, past groups of cheery drunk people. 

“It was always you driving,” Harry says, tired. “You know, back then.”

“I had a license,” is all Louis says. 

Harry yawns, wiggling his bum into the seat for more comfort. His mind is floating through the memories of the evening, feeling slow. “It sucks that you have to go to that wedding. Is she pretty?” he says eventually.

Louis opens and closes his mouth, shifts the gear; his jaw visibly moves like he’s clenching his teeth, before he says, “Yeah, she’s fit alright.” 

Harry hms in response, but is too tired to speak; he feels himself drifting off before he even consciously realizes it’s happening. It’s a slow skid, his breath evening out, eyes closing. It’s the cool air in the car and hum of the engine and concrete beneath them. It’s Louis’ profile staring straight ahead in undivided focus. 

He comes to again, when Louis is parking the car outside his house. It’s fully dark now and when Harry opens the door and stumbles out of the car, he’s greeted by the sound of water from the canal by his house, pebbles crunching under his boots. 

Louis’ head pops up on the other side of the car. He gives Harry a worried look and says, “Do you need me to come inside with you?”

Harry scratches his cheek and shakes his head, leaning against the car to produce his keys and phone from his jeans. “‘m good,” he says, and flicking through his keys only to be distracted by his phone. There’s another text from Nick that reads _don’t_. He unlocks the screen to read Nick’s other text, which is, atypically, a plea not to do anything dumb, then his own text from a few hours earlier. 

“Hey,” Harry hears himself say just as Louis climbs back into the car. He ducks down, holding onto the roof to look at Louis who cocks his brow at him and says, “What?”

“I meant it,” Harry starts. “Like, I’d do it. I’d be your date for the wedding. If it’d make you feel less awful about being there and if you want me to, I’ll do it. I promise I’ll be good.” 

“Go _home_ , Harry.” Louis shakes his head at him and makes a shooing motion with his hand, but Harry is feeling stubborn. 

“I’m serious, Lou.” He widens his stance a little until he’s almost fully hanging off the roof, rocking the car a little with his weight. “It’ll be really private, won’t it? I’m sure we’ll be fine if we keep a low profile, and like, even if the media somehow get hold of it, Sarah can fix it.”

“Like you can keep a low profile,” Louis comments. “And she’d be furious and yell at us. Anyway, I'm okay, you know, with Jake and me being over. I don’t care, really.”

“But wouldn’t you rather he also see you with a fit guy there?” Harry insists and Louis snorts. 

“And you’re fit?” he asks, but there’s an upward lift to his lips. 

“When’s the ceremony?” Harry asks, ignoring him. 

“June twelfth, next week.” Louis shakes his head at him and turns the ignition on. 

“When do you leave?” Harry tries again. “Time and date, Lou.”

Louis laughs again. “Like you’ll remember. “June twelfth, at eleven.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promises with a grin. 

“Go _home_ ,” Louis repeats. “Sleep. Don’t ring me tomorrow to cry at me about how hungover you are.” He starts the car, but doesn’t hit the gas, letting it roll back a few inches with his hand on the brake. It’s enough to shake Harry out of his stance and he steps back, waving. 

“June twelfth, eleven!” he calls, slamming the door shut, waiting until Louis’ back out on the street to find his keys and slowly make his way to the house. 

 

*

As it turns out, Louis doesn’t seem to think it’s awful an idea as he pretended it was; he forwards Harry the official wedding invitation in the afternoon of the next day with a note that says nothing except _fyi_. Harry, still hungover and barely awake, smiles at that, surprised that Louis isn’t trying to pretend Harry never offered, like he sort of expected him to. 

He calls Harry twenty minutes later like he knows that Harry just woke up and needed some coffee to become fully functional again. He, too, however, sounds a little hoarse and tired and like he hasn’t been awake for much longer. Harry, curled up on the sofa, tucks his phone between his cheek and shoulder, and says, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Louis laughs; he’s got the telly on in the background, something that sounds like a footie match. Harry comments on it and Louis grunts. “Yeah, is shit, though, we’re not doing well.” 

“Aw,” Harry makes. He wiggles his toes into his blanket, yawning. “You know what else feels like shit? My _head_.”

“I can imagine.” Louis snorts, goes quiets for a few seconds, and then makes a frustrated noise and curses. Harry imagines a failed attempt at a goal, Louis’ displeased face and smiles. “Hey,” Louis says eventually. “Hey, did you get my email?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods slowly. “It looks really nice.”

There’s another silence like Louis is trying to figure out what to say - Harry can imagine this, too, has seen Louis struggle to ask for help more than once. It’s always the big things that Louis feels like he needs to do on his own, those things that would show that he’s vulnerable. He never has trouble asking Zayn to roll a joint for him or Liam to get something from a top shelf. “So you were serious?” he manages finally. “You’d come with me?” 

Harry nods again and then says, “Of course. I’ve already downloaded _A Gentleman’s Guide to the Perfect Date_.”

“Very funny,” Louis says. “If you _are_ serious, I’d rather you figure out whether you have a normal suit, not one of those Ziggy Stardust costumes.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course I have a normal suit. I have _several_ normal suits.” He clears his throat, trying to rid his voice of sleep. “And I am serious, yeah. I think it’ll be nice. Just the two of us doing something together?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “We’ll just- you know. You’ll just be my plus one or whatever.” He stops again. “I guess I could’ve asked anyone-” Harry protests, offended, “- but people probably won't ask as many questions if it’s you.” 

Harry nods, trying to understand Louis’ logic, and figures eventually that people would pry more with somebody they don’t already know from the press. “So, do you want me to pick you up?” he asks tentatively and Louis huffs. 

“What? No, I was going to talk to Paul about driving up there myself. Don’t wanna show up with, you know, a driver and security and shit. So I can come pick you up,” he says.

“Alright, alright.” Harry scrunches up his nose, nodding. “Friday at eleven?” 

“Friday at eleven,” Louis repeats. “No stripes, okay? And no flower print. No print at all. Just a proper suit.” He stops again, clearly having a hard time. “You don’t have to, though. Like, if you don’t want to.”

“I already said I wanted to,” Harry says. “I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman boyfriend for the day.”

“You’re just going as my _date_ ,” Louis insists, then his voice softens a bit. “And thank you.” He clears his throat before Harry can reply and continues, “Alright, I’ve got to go and go to the fitting for my own suit, actually, so I’ll text you details.” Harry nods in response, and Louis hangs up, leaving Harry smiling against his phone and trying to remember if any of his formal suits still fit. 

 

*

 

Louis calls him at ten-thirty-five Friday morning, the sounds of traffic indicating that he’s already on his way through the city. Harry is still messing with his hair in the master bedroom, shaking it from one side to the other, unable to decide, and taps the speaker button on his phone when Louis’ face lights up its screen. 

“Hiya!” he says, scrunching his face up at himself. He rearranges his fringe again, moving it to the other side and digs his fingers into his hair. There’s no actual difference to his usual routine, but for some reason he feels substantially more nervous than he would for any other outing with the lads. 

“Are you almost ready?” Louis asks. “Traffic’s a bit shit, but I should be there in maybe ten minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says and looks down his body, ironed shirt to trousers to shoes. He had the suit fitted last minute, the trousers of most of his other suits too short, jackets just a tad too tight around his shoulders. This fits like a glove now, and hopefully conforms with Louis’ idea of wedding appropriate. His jacket is somewhere in his bedroom - hopefully - but Harry suspects that he won’t be wearing it much anyway. Already, the sun is warm, almost hot, through the large glass windows framing the roof, and while it will be a little cooler up north, he reckons it won’t be jacket weather either way. “Hey, did you talk Paul out of security?” he continues.

“Yeah, it took a bit of convincing on my side though,” Louis says. “He’s not happy with it at all, but he said since it’s a small wedding and mostly family and we’re not announced, it should be alright. He’s making Alberto stay in the village, though, so he’ll be about ten minutes away if we need him.”

“Didn’t think he’d actually let us do it,” Harry says, impressed. He figures, though, that Paul’s decision might also be due to the fact that things have gone a bit quiet since winter, with no tour ahead of them and nothing but months and months spent holed up writing without any press appearances. 

“Are you all packed?” Louis continues and Harry nods. 

“Yes, all good,” he says, straightens out his belt, then after another critical look at himself in the mirror, pops open the top two buttons on his shirt. “Do we need snacks, Lou? Or will we be stopping somewhere? I think I’ve got some cinnamon rolls left over from yesterday.”

Louis doesn’t reply, but swears into the speaker, a horn sounding. “Wanker,” he snaps, probably at some random driver, and Harry laughs. 

“Don’t get caught giving the finger to some poor bloke. It’ll only get you on the cover of the Daily Mail again,” he jokes. 

“Put your shoes on, Harry,” Louis replies dryly. “Also, don’t bring food, and _hurry_ , please.” 

“There’s plenty of time,” Harry says, but puts his phone between ear and shoulder anyway as he starts gathering his toiletries in a bag. “I’ll meet you at the door, okay?”

Louis hums agreement into the phone and hangs up, and Harry bustles to get ready. His bag is packed on his bed and he stuffs his toiletry bag, phone charger and underwear inside before zipping it up. 

There’s not much left to do after head into the hallway with his bag and his suit coat and dropping both on his dresser; he checks the all the switches in the kitchen and makes sure the alarm system is working. He rechecks his bag for his phone and wallet and then puts on his shoes and heads outside with his luggage in one hand and a buttonhole for Louis that he picked up on a whim at the flower shop in the other. 

Louis’ car is already parked across the street, and he’s outside, leaning against it and having a cig. Harry stops at the kerbstone, waiting for traffic to pass, but Louis doesn’t immediately notice him. He’s staring at his phone, cigarette in his other hand, seemingly squinting against the bright light. His hair is all nicely done, a little messy and styled, fringe falling into his eyes. He’s clean-shaven, in a fittingly tailored dust grey suit, but wearing trainers, and when he looks up and meets Harry’s eyes, Harry can’t help feel a little flustered that he’s been caught staring. He waves at him, smiling like he’s been reverted back to the kid he was two years ago who couldn’t keep a straight face whenever Louis was in the room. 

“Harry, hurry up!” Louis calls, pocketing his phone, and Harry ducks his head and makes his way across the street, trying to keep his stupid grin off his face.

“Didn’t know you were here already,” he says and meets Louis’ raised fist in a gentle bump as a hello. “Hi.”

“Hey. Traffic wasn’t quite as bad as I thought,” Louis says. He drops his cig and walks around the car. “Can you put your bag in the trunk? I’ve got the flowers in the back and I don’t want them getting all squished.”

“Yessir,” Harry mumbles and does as he’s told. He gets his phone and his charger out and then drops into the passenger seat, setting the buttonhole in his lap. He settles in and fastens his seatbelt and Louis squirms around in his seat and fishes a bag out from behind the driver’s seat. He fastens his seatbelt and drops it in his lap, then rummages around in it and hands Harry a large, half-wrapped danish pastry. 

“Eat up, Haz,” he says and hits the ignition. “I’ve also brought some coffee, if you want any.” He points to the two large cups resting in their respective holders, and Harry grins, grabbing one of them and taking a large sip. 

“You _love_ me,” he says and takes a large bite of his pastry. Louis grins a bit and shrugs, pulling out onto the street, but doesn’t comment further. “Hey, I got you a thing,” Harry says between bites, holding up the little plastic box containing the flower buttonhole. It’s a cornflower, lowkey, but fits Louis’ grey suit. Louis flicks his eyes over, then frowns and seems to hold back a laugh. 

“What’s with that?” he asks, shaking his head. 

“You’re supposed to put it on your jacket or shirt,” Harry replies. He licks some cream off his fingers and then taps his chest where he’s fastened his own buttonhole, made from the same flower. “We match.” 

“I know what it is.” Louis snorts, shifting the gear, but looks a bit fond anyway. “I’m not a girl you need to court, though.”

“Well.” Harry rolls his shoulders, takes another bite off his pastry, chewing slowly. “I like to bring my dates flowers. Also, we _match_ ,” he repeats and Louis, finally, laughs. 

“Could’ve got me red roses instead,” he says, wiggling his brows and Harry bites his lip, feeling silly. 

“Blue to match your eyes as well,” he says. 

“Tryhard,” Louis replies with a half-grin, but turns his attention back on the street. He’s not a big talker when he’s driving, something which Harry learned early on. He enjoys the silence, likes to focus, told Harry so a long time ago when they were going back north for Christmas. Harry smiles at the memory, flicks on the radio and leans back to enjoy his food, trying not to get crumbs everywhere. 

They leave the city quickly, heading north-west; traffic isn’t as terrible as Louis had made it seem on the phone earlier, and Harry focuses on the houses speeding past them, watching as the spaces between them get wider and wider, with the green in between becoming more and more prominent. 

Louis is humming along quietly to the music, now and then taking a sip from his coffee or a bite from the pastry resting in his lap. There’s a few crumbs on his thighs and his tie, and Harry finishes his food, carefully getting rid of the crumbs on his own suit.

He drops his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, listening to the car and the quiet music and Louis’ low hum. The closer they get, the more Harry is forced to admit to himself that he’s feeling a little nervous. He blinks his eyes open, sneaking a peek at Louis, who’s still staring on ahead, the food bag crumpled in his lap. 

“So, how exactly would you like to do this?” he says carefully.

“Dunno,” Louis replies, licking his lips. 

“I can do whatever you want me to,” Harry offers. “Like, should we hold hands? Just tell me so I don’t muck up right in the first minute.” 

“We’re not going to be bloody holding _hands_ ,” Louis snaps, shaking his head. He makes the engine roar, frowning darkly.

“Okay, okay.” Harry raises his hands and clears his throat, deciding not to push it when Louis is clearly stressed. It’s taken them about half an hour to leave London, and the land is slowly opening up in front of the road. “I was just-” He stops himself again and shakes his head. Louis is watching him, quietly, out of the corner of his eye. “Where’s it exactly where we’re going?” he asks eventually, trying to recall the wedding invitation. 

“Brixworth,” Louis says. “There’s a park. That was in the email, though.” 

“So, it’ll be in the park?” he asks and Louis shakes his head. 

“There’s a hotel by the lake that they rented,” he explains unnerved, reaching down to change the gear and speeding up as the road widens once more. 

Harry nods and uncomfortably shifts in his seat; Louis seems to relax after a moment, sighing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I’m, you know. It’s making me a bit nervous.” He looks at Harry, trying to smile like he’s apologizing, and then continues, “How about we just introduce you as my date, and let people make assumptions based on that, yeah? Everybody knows who you are anyway, mate.” 

“Everybody knows who you are too, Lou,” Harry replies automatically, even though he knows perfectly well what Louis means. He’s not surprised when Louis doesn’t comment, but continues as if Harry hadn’t said anything at all. 

“So like, you’re not going to be my boyfriend or anything,” he says. “That’d be too big of a mess, and we’re just not going to be answering questions, alright?” Harry nods along and Louis keeps explaining, “I figure you’re staying for one night only? For like, the official ceremony, and you’ll just leave again in the morning. And Jake can think whatever the bloody hell he wants to think.”

“Got it, not the boyfriend act,” Harry says, waiting patiently for Louis to keep talking. Seven, eight, nine distance markers rush past them, until Louis makes another sound, kind of like he’s clearing his throat.

“You can behave a little bit like a boyfriend.” He fiddles with the steering wheel, eyes flicking to look at Harry and Harry smiles. “But not stupidly. Maybe just pretend you’re trying to pull me or something. I don’t know.”

“Or have pulled before?” Harry wiggles his brows at him, but is only met with a slightly worried stare. “I’ll be good,” he promises in response. “Nothing stupid. Just let people assume whatever.”

Louis nods, looking pleased finally. “Exactly that. Let them keep guessing.” 

 

*

There’s an otherworldly tranquility to the site when Louis pulls up by the hotel and they get out of the car, gravel crunching beneath Harry’s boots. Seated between several lush groves with a small creek running through and a lake, surrounded by seemingly endless meadows, it seems like something directly out of a fantasy film. It’s warm out here, but the water cools the air down to something bearable, makes Harry not want to rip his clothes off right away even in the hot midday sun. 

The courtyard is filled with parked cars already and there’s voices and music drifting towards them from not too far away. The hotel itself is an old building, red brick and white windows and all, cushioned between exquisitely sculpted hedges and smooth lawns. 

“This is _amazing_ ,” Harry says, turning on his heel to get another look at everything, and Louis grins at him, nodding. 

“Pretty good, huh!” He joins Harry on his side of the car, and they grab their jackets and the flowers from the trunk together. “Let’s say hello and drop the flowers off, and then after we can maybe figure out the room situation, yeah?”

Harry nods along and follows him toward a set of tents in the garden behind the hotel. There’s a photographer and a band of fiddlers, several guests already relaxing with drinks.

“Are you nervous? I’m a bit nervous,” he says under his breath, smiling, catching up with Louis and nudging his shoulder with his own. 

“Just be yourself,” Louis replies, tilting his head to look up at him and grinning. “Just be yourself as my _date_.” There’s a glint of mischievousness in his eyes that wasn’t there before and that reminds Harry of them pulling pranks together back in the day; it’s exactly this that has Harry take two deep breaths and gently fit his hand over the small of Louis’ back.

“After you, then,” he says, nudging him along. 

If Louis shies away, it’s so minutely that Harry doesn’t notice; instead he raises his hand in a wave, shouting a hello to the people who shout back a greeting in return. Harry waves, too, watches as guests begin gathering to greet them. 

There’s a lot of hellos and Harry being completely superfluously introduced to some of Louis’ relatives that he hasn’t met yet. A lot of Louis getting hugged and getting his cheeks and hair petted. Harry makes sure to stay close, keeping a hand on his arm or neck, smiling along and making smalltalk. 

“Where’s Anita? We wanted to drop these off with her.” Louis, holding up the flowers, finally asks one of his aunts, whose aubergine hat makes her almost as tall as Harry despite her being eye level with his breast pocket. 

“Oh,” she starts and takes the flowers from Louis, smiling, “she’s upstairs, getting ready, of course!” 

“Can’t believe she was able to tear herself away from all the prep,” Louis says, laughing and shaking his head. He turns to Harry. “She wanted to set up the whole wedding herself, has been super stressed. I sort of expected her to be down here and trimming the hedges to make sure they’re perfect.”

Harry laughs, and Louis’ aunt interjects, “Oh, Lou, you should have been here last night. She was walking the gardens impossibly late and trying to set all the lamps in perfect rows until we all ganged up on her and made sure she got a few hours of sleep. Poor lamb.” She flicks her gaze over Harry momentarily, eyes alert and bright and inquisitive, before she turns back to Louis, leaving Harry very relieved to not be the center of her attention anymore. “Also, love, Jake is already here. We’ve set up your seats for the reception at another table, with aunt Mary, seeing as Jay and the girls are in Barbados, but we can change the seating still if you’d rather sit with Jake anyway? Or somewhere else entirely?” 

Louis’ stance changes slightly, tenser at first, until he leans into Harry’s touch some more. Harry stays close, trying to read his body language, watching carefully as Louis says, “No, no, that’s alright, aunt Linda. We’ll be just fine wherever you’ve got space for us.” 

“Alright, dear,” Linda says and reaches out to pet Louis’ cheek again. “I’ve got to go and see if the kitchen is doing what they’re supposed to, but you boys got here just on time, the bar is already open, I think!” She waddles off, holding onto her hat and the flowers to protect them from the wind, taking her flock of elderly ladies with her. 

“Well, that wasn’t too _terrible_ ,” Louis says and cocks a brow at Harry, giving him a pleased little smile. 

Harry shrugs and laughs. “I thought she was going to interrogate me right then and there, but _overall_ , I suppose, it was fine.” He offers his arm and Louis hesitates for a moment, but then takes it, following along as Harry leads him toward the tents.

“Actually surprised she didn’t,” Louis says, grinning. 

“She’s a bit scary, yeah,” Harry admits and Louis snorts. 

“Wait until you meet aunt Mary,” he warns; he gently grips Harry’s arm and leads him past a line of dangling lanterns and into the biggest tent where a crowd of people has already gathered. 

Harry goes through another round of greetings, shaking hands and saying hellos; there’s a lot of ‘ _How’s the album going?_ ’ and careful requests for pictures which Harry complies with with a smile, ducking down to allow countless cheeks to be pressed against his own. Louis’ presence seems to be less of a novelty for the guests, but he, too, takes pictures and even records a video for someone’s little sister. 

When they’ve finally run out of hands to shake, Louis snakes his arm around Harry’s waist and pulls him toward a little table closer to the bar. “I’m sort of dying for a drink,” he says, looking a little desperate and Harry nods. 

“What would you like?” he asks. “I’ll get drinks for us.”

Louis gives him a funny look, half a smile. “Just a pint for now, yeah?”

“Gotcha,” Harry says, heading for the bar to get their drinks - a pint for Louis as requested and a gin and tonic for himself - and returns, carefully setting the full glass down in front of Louis.

“Here you go,” he says raising his drink in a toast; Louis does the same, nodding, taking a huge sip before saying, “Thanks, man.” He quirks a brow, pointing at Harry’s drink. “You’re starting off a bit steep?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ll take it slow,” he says, taking a deliberately small sip. “Do you think people will post videos and pictures right away? Of us?”

Louis shrugs. “Maybe some of them? But this place is in the middle of nowhere, so I think we’re safe.” He looks a lot more relaxed now than he did just before getting out of the car and he polishes off a good part of his beer with another two sips, his other hand curling around the edge of the table. Harry keeps nipping at his drink; he sometimes forgets that Louis is just as good at all of this as the other lads and Harry himself, and that the Louis who lets his guard down at a quiet barbecue dinner with friends is not the one who braved the Brits holding another man’s hand without preamble, who cuts down reporters with a look and who’s ever so unrelenting. He looks that way now, too, sharp and beautiful and alert, but Harry knows it’s not for prying journalists but for Jake who may pop up any moment. 

Realization hits Harry with a sinking feeling that Louis’ carefully messed-with hair and his slick suit and smooth face are all for Jake in the end.

“What?” Louis says and Harry looks away, caught. 

“Nothing,” he replies slowly. “You look fit, is all. Really, really fit.” He grins at him and then reaches out to pick an invisible thread off Louis’ immaculate shoulder. “Like, fitter than anyone here.” 

Louis huffs a bit, but his lashes fan down; he’s not blushing, but Harry knows he could be under his tan. It pleases him indefinitely, the fact that even now he can still do this. 

“And you’re the expert on this?” Louis asks.

“Dunno about expert.” Harry nips at his drink again. “But I’ve seen my share of fit blokes, so I feel confident in saying that you are, yeah.” 

“You’re so full of shit, I can’t believe you ever manage to get some.” Louis shifts a bit, but doesn’t try to move away like Harry half expected him to. Instead he leans in closer, his arm brushing Harry’s. 

Harry sighs deeply and fakes exasperation. “People like me for my intellect, Louis.” 

“Sure they do,” Louis drawls. He gives Harry a look and then tugs at the collar of Harry’s shirt, like he’s trying to emphasize the fact that Harry has left the top buttons undone and is showing off his tattoos. 

Harry considers defending himself, but then remembers the buttonhole that he brought in the pocket of his jacket. He digs for it and lays it on the table, nudging it toward Louis. “You should wear that,” he says, tapping his own, fastened with a pin to his shirt. 

Louis considers the box for a moment and then gives in with a sigh, opening it and fastening the little flower to his shirt. “Happy?” he asks and Harry grins in delight. He reaches out and sets it straight, making sure it’s even and Louis straightens his back and tilts his chin up, allowing Harry to fuss about for a moment.

When Harry pulls away to look at him again, his smile suddenly freezes and Harry thinks for a moment that it’s because of him. A second later, he realizes that Louis’ gaze is passing him by entirely, focused on something behind him, and Louis reassumes his composure, splaying his hand out against Harry’s chest and then pulling away, but his smile isn’t quite real anymore. 

“Is it him?” Harry asks stupidly even though he knows the answer to that question. Louis nods anyway. 

“Yeah,” he says. He tosses the rest of his pint down in a huge sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking again. “It’s him alright.” 

“Okay,” Harry says carefully, inching his head around to take a peek to where Jake is making conversation with an elderly couple, a girl holding onto his arm. She looks up and meets Harry’s eyes, cocking a brow at him, lips pursed. Louis was right - she is very, very pretty.

Louis schools his face into a carefully tempered smile as they approach. “Heya, Jake,” he calls as they approach. “Mila.”

Harry turns on his heel, foot awkwardly catching, to position himself next to Louis. Jake nods in greeting and Harry smiles at him and waves, trying to read the way Jake’s face shifts between confusion and something else. Mila’s stare is cold, wary, and Harry protectively puts his arm around Louis’ waist, holding his breath, and when he tenses up, squeezes Louis’ hip gingerly, just to let him know he’s there. 

“Good to see you,” Jake says. 

Mila, still holding onto Jake’s arm, and moves to grasp his hand; she gives both Louis and Harry a smile and a cold hello like she doesn’t know who they are. Her face betrays her, however, and Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ waist, almost feeling the air crackling with electricity. He reaches his other hand out in greeting, smiling warmly at her to diffuse the tension between them. She takes it graciously, returning his smile. “Hiya, I’m Harry,” he introduces himself and she nods and says, “Mila.” 

“So,” Louis starts, drawing the word out, then laughs almost nervously. “How’ve you been? How’s your thesis going?”

“Good, good,” Jake says just as awkwardly. “It’s all going well. It’s almost finished now. I’ve got all the editing and the reference pages left, though.”

“All the fun work, you know,” Mila interjects, bumping shoulders with Jake. Her accent is heavy, midwestern, but interlaced with undertones of British, like she’s already spent too much time here and is losing her drawl. “Good thing he has me to make sure he’s not messing up too much.”

Jake laughs, turning to look at her, eyes gentle, then turns back to them. “Mila’s an assistant professor, did I tell you?”

Louis clears his throat and nods courteously. “You did, yes.” Harry watches him from the corner of his eye, his tightening jaw, mouth in a straight line, and slides his hand up to his shoulder and then his arm, squeezing it gently. He glances at Louis, scanning his face: he looks like he wants to leave, badly, but can’t say anything to that effect. 

Harry clears his throat. “Are the both of you staying here as well?”

Jake’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “Yeah, we are. The rooms are really nice, not sure if they’re up to your usual standards, though.”

Harry barely catches himself from rolling his eyes and instead smiles casually at him, looking for something to say, but Louis is faster. 

“Well, we’re used to sleeping in plane seats anyway.” He looks up at Harry, grazing his knuckles against Harry’s arm. ”D’you wanna check in now? Before the big rush starts?” he asks. 

“Good idea,” Harry says. They wave Jake and his girlfriend goodbye and Harry follows Louis to the car where he opens the drunk to grab both their bags, while Louis cleans the remains of their breakfast pastries out of the car. They start walking to the front entrance of the hotel, Louis’ face a little dark. 

“That didn’t go too badly,” Harry says and Louis frowns, shrugging. 

“Assistant professor,” he grunts and Harry bites his lip, not sure what to say. 

“If it helps at all,” he finally starts, pushing his shoulder against the large glass door to wedge it open for Louis to walk through. “You are definitely fitter than her.”

Louis hmphs at that and wiggles past. “I saw you checking her out,” he says without looking back, and Harry shakes his head at him, confused, and follows, waiting patiently with their bags while Louis checks them in. 

With Louis’ back curving as he leans against the worktop, Harry can’t help but watch him, the way he smiles at the receptionist when she blushes, laughing at something in their conversation that Harry isn’t paying attention to. It makes him a little jealous, maybe, that she’s got all of Louis’ attention suddenly.

He shifts the bags in his hands, rocking back and forth to distribute the weight, impatient. Louis has now moved on to signing and filling out some form, tapping a pen against the counter as he reads. He looks serious, quiet, and Harry takes two large steps to press against his back and hooks his chin over his shoulder, startling him. He ignores the way he tenses up and focuses his attention on the receptionist instead, giving her a blinding smile. 

“Are you making him sign away his house for a room, love?” he asks and she blushes even more deeply, fiddling with her tie. 

“No, no, just to complete the reservation,” she says. “Since you’re, uh, you’ve been added to the room.”

“Added to the room,” Harry repeats quietly, nudging into Louis again who grunts in frustration, putting a messy signature on the form. 

“Hurry up, Harry,” he says, squeezing out from under him, handing the pen back to the girl. “Sorry, love, he’s got no manners.”

“I have exceptional manners,” Harry objects. 

“Room 45,” Louis says, obviously ignoring him and making a beeline for the lift. Harry smiles at the receptionist one last time and follows, stepping inside the cabin with Louis. Louis gives him a long look just after the doors close, both brows raised.

“You’re impossible,” he says. 

“What?” Harry asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“Flirting with everything that so much as moves,” Louis says. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and Harry, unsure of how to react, just grins at him. 

“I still love you best of all, babe,” he says.

The lift pings and Louis backs out slowly, waving their keycard, but not replying. Harry traipses after him, making an effort to take extra big, wonky steps, until Louis’ head whips around again. 

“Can you not be a complete wanker for like, three hours?” he snaps, looking like he’s about to stomp his foot for emphasis. 

Harry stops dead, feeling his shoulders sink a little. He knows Louis doesn’t mean it - Louis is nervous and wigging out over Jake being here and Harry understands that Louis’ default setting for dealing with stress is to go a bit bonkers, particularly around people he trusts. It is, in a sense, a compliment. Nevertheless, Harry’s chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Just. Trying to make you feel better.”

“Stop that then, you’re doing a terrible, terrible job of it,” Louis grunts and moves on to their room, pushing the door open with more force than strictly necessary. Harry drops their bags on the bed - double, how ironic - and sits down, looking around to inspect the room. It’s a nice room, kind of country chic with white antiques and soft linen covers and a beautiful dark wood floor covered in thick rugs. 

“This is nice,” he says, but Louis only glares at him, vanishing into the bathroom. It gives Harry’s heart another tug and he sighs and lies back against the bed, rubbing his belly and closing his eyes. 

There’s the sound of water, then the tap closing and then footsteps until Louis says, “Stop that, you’ll only wrinkle your shirt.”

Harry peeks at him with one eye, but sits up obediently, stretching his arms over his head. “Sorry,” he says again, looking down at his lap, carefully folding his hands to keep himself from moving around.

“Ugh,” Louis makes and then the bed dips as he sits next to Harry. “You’ve already gone ahead and done it,” he continues, patting at Harry’s back in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. “Can’t even show you off anymore now,” he says quietly and then stops, squeezing the space between Harry’s neck and his shoulder. 

“I’m sure I can get it steamed here?” Harry offers, looking at Louis from under his bangs and finds Louis looking back at him, face much more gentle than before.

“It’s fine,” Louis says. He pulls his hand away, but stays close enough for their shoulders and thighs to touch. “You can pull off even a wrinkled shirt.” He looks down and then up again, smiling a bit sadly at Harry. It seems like he wants to apologize, so Harry pulls him into a hug, squeezing tightly. He fits under Harry’s arm perfectly, better than Harry remembers, and oofs, but gives it a full thirty seconds before wiggling away. He boxes Harry arm and reaches up to make sure his hair is fine, then glances at his watch. 

“Time for the ceremony?” Harry asks and Louis nods. 

“Yeah, we should be getting downstairs, I guess?” he says. “Jackets on,” he adds unnecessarily. “Unless you’ll hate me completely for it?

“Can’t hate you more than this,” Harry singsongs until Louis makes an exasperated noise and gets up to gather his things together; he’s, however, smiling, and that’s enough for Harry. He shrugs his jacket on, straightening the collar. “I couldn’t hate you,” he says seriously. “Not even for this.”

Louis stares back at him, squinting, and then laughs a bit, smiling more, the tension obviously stripping off him little by little.

They freshen up, the both of them messing with their hair in the tiny bathroom, making faces at each other in the mirror, and then make it down to the ceremony just in time to find their seats next to the beautifully decorated wedding aisle by the lake. A cool breeze is coming in from the water, making Harry’s jacket somewhat bearable. People have already begun gathering in groups, chatting, excitement spreading. It’s a small wedding and Louis obviously feels at home, relaxing as soon as he spots another cluster of relatives to say hello to. 

Harry shakes more hands and says more hellos, grabbing a glass of champagne for himself and for Louis off a tray once and then again as they keep moving through the crowd; the anticipation lingering in the air is, for once, not directed at them and Harry relaxes more, finishing off his champagne, staying close to Louis. 

He makes conversation with a few of Louis’ relatives until the string players start playing and people begin moving to their seats. Harry and Louis follow along, squeezing between the chairs and settling down. 

“Are you going to cry?” Louis asks, nudging his shoulder and Harry grins at him. 

“Maybe, I’ll see how the mood strikes.” He nudges back and then leans against the backrest, thighs slightly splayed apart to watch the ceremony. 

It’s beautiful and festive, not quite as traditional as Harry thought it would be, with the bridesmaids in colorful, painted dresses and the happy couple reading their own, very personal and funny vows. Harry doesn’t cry, but he’s not embarrassed to admit that he’s close when they seal their promise with a kiss, both of them smiling happily. 

They walk down the aisle holding hands and grinning stupidly as everyone gets up, clapping, and Harry can’t help but smile along, finally sticking his thumb and forefinger in his mouth to whistle loudly. 

There’s more cheering, whistling and clapping as people start talking in the rows, a whisper that grows to a storm of voices. The bride waves at everyone, laughing, and shouting, “Who’d like a piece of cake? Because I am _starving_!” She stops suddenly, craning her head, and then smiling says, “My mum is reminding me of the formalities, so let’s get those over with first!” 

She’s a real sight in her dress, leading the way to the reception not too far away, skipping and still holding hands with the groom; there’s several tents as well as benches, and in the biggest tent, Harry can spot a very large, very lilac wedding cake. 

They carefully weave through the lanes, Harry making sure to move newly unoccupied seats out of Louis’ way before stepping through. He grabs two glasses of champagne off an unsuspecting waiter, handing one of them to Louis to drink as they walk. They clink glasses and Louis gives him a blinding smile. 

“That was beautiful,” he says. “Surprised you made it through without crying, though. Bit disappointed, to be honest.” 

“What?” Harry blinks at him, half-smiling. “You wanted to see me _cry_?” He takes a large sip of his champagne, moving with the crowd as it steadily marches on. 

“It’s always good fun,” Louis counters. “You get all red and puffy and get snot and blubber everywhere.”

Harry huffs. “Very funny. When I was a child maybe.” 

“And what are you now?” 

They move another few feet on, inching toward the reception line. “Don’t you know?” he asks. “I’ve got chest hair now. I can show you, if you don’t believe me.” 

“Nobody wants you to take your clothes off, Styles.” Louis makes a face to hide his smile, but doesn’t quite succeed. 

“You sure?” Harry wiggles his brows at him. “I got all the goods.”

Louis opens and closes his mouth, and Harry imagines a faint blush on his face before he says, “Eh. Nothing too exciting.” He sticks his tongue out and Harry switches his glass to his right hand and sneaks his arm around Louis’ waist, pulling him closer. He’s feeling a bit tipsy already, but pleasantly so; the prospect of spending the evening with Louis and more champagne and really good food is very promising. 

“Are you feeling better? Than before?” he asks. 

Louis looks up, surprised, then nods. “Yeah, not as grumpy.” He leans into Harry. “You’re not doing too badly as a date.” 

It’s praise that Harry didn’t expect, and it makes him bite his lip to keep himself from grinning, trying to find some flippant comment. He’s interrupted in his train of thought when, he and Louis are joined by an elderly lady wearing a dress the same color as the cake. 

“Aunt Mary!” Louis exclaims and hugs her tightly. When he pulls away, she pats both his cheeks, smiling. 

“Hello, Lewis,” she says. “Or is it Louis again? I can never remember which one you now prefer, dear.” 

“Either one is fine,” Louis says, still smiling. He looks like a little boy again and Harry can tell that he hasn’t seen her in a long time. He gets so distracted watching Louis’ face, the way his eyes are lit up and happy, that he entirely forgets his manners until Mary makes herself a little taller and says, “Hello to you too.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Harry sputters. “I’m Harry, hello, I’m so sorry, I was a bit distracted.” He shakes her hand carefully and she narrows her eyes at him.

“Yes, yes, I do know who you are,” she says, then turns to Louis. “He hasn’t got your good manners does he? This one.” 

Harry almost makes an affronted noise but catches himself before it bubbles out of him, when Louis’ elbow stings into his side. Harry smiles at her apologetically. 

“Don’t be too harsh on him, aunt Mary,” Louis says. “He’s not the brightest crayon in the box.” Harry pulls a face at him, smiling anyway, and says, “ _Hey_.” 

Mary laughs, gesturing for them to follow. “With a pretty head like that,” she starts, but doesn’t finish, allowing the implication to hang in the air. “Should we go and say hello to the happy couple?”

They trudge after her, the line only progressing slowly. Harry can already make out Anita’s wedding dress, and only a few minutes later, Harry is shaking the groom’s hand and kissing the bride’s cheek and congratulating them both before being shipped off to one of the tables by Louis’ aunt. 

As they sit with at their table - joined by Louis’ uncle as well as another young couple. The receiving line seems to have come to an end, and the bride steps up on the stage and opens the buffet. Mary, her husband and the other two guests from the table head straight for the buffet tables, where a long queue is already forming. Harry, glancing around the table, leans in to Louis to ask, “So, this is all family?”

Louis nods, adjusting his water glass. “Pretty much, and then tomorrow night she’s doing another reception with all her uni friends.” 

Harry nods. “So, what’s the plan? Am I staying for that?” 

“Not necessarily?” Louis says. “I mean, not unless you really want to? There’s going to be a lot more people around, too.” He shrugs and Harry considers, trying to figure out whether Louis wants to him stay, or he’d rather Harry leave. Before he can come to a conclusion, however, Louis pats his belly.

“Alright,” he says. “Should we get some food in us?”

“Food and _drinks_ ,” Harry emphasizes. “Should I take care of the liquids, and you get us a huge plate of everything? They love you, you can get away with it.” He grins and they get up, high-fiving. Louis scurries off to the buffet while Harry makes his way to the bar, watching as Louis, charmingly, sneaks into the middle of the queue where one of his aunts is already waiting. 

Harry gets a bottle of champagne at the bar and a beer for Louis and another gin and tonic for himself. Precariously balancing his loot, he finds his way back to their table, which has been deserted by the other guests. Louis’ ashen head, too, has disappeared in the crowd, but he returns only a few moments later with two huge serving plates of food, grinning from ear to ear. 

“I hope you thoroughly appreciate this,” he says, approaching. Harry jumps to his feet and takes one of the plates off his hands to fit it onto the table with everything else. 

“Because I was given a lot of stern glances and one rather mean comment about my belly for this,” Louis continues.

“Well.” Harry raises a brow at him as they sit and begin filling their plates. “You’ve quite let yourself go, it’s true.”

“Fuck you,” Louis says around a mouthful of sesame-fried chicken and beer and flicks him off rudely. 

Harry digs into the coconut prawns and the boef tartar on his plate, happily chewing and washing everything down with a generous sip from his drink. It doesn’t mix quite as well as he thought it would, but he’s too starved to really care at this point. Belatedly, he replies, “‘s okay. I’d still go for you. Nothing wrong with a bit of chub.”

“Chub my arse,” Louis grumbles, but continues eating, filling up his plate once more. It looks like Louis really did get something of everything, as the mix of tempura greens and canapés, smoked salmon and caviar, various tartars and cheeses, meats and breads of all kinds aptly proves, and Harry helps himself to another plate, too. 

He’s half-way through it, when he remembers that he hasn’t replied yet. “There, too,” he manages around a juicy slice of grilled duck. It beautifully melts on his tongue and he leans back in his chair, moaning as he chews. 

“What the fuck, Harry,” Louis says and Harry peeks at him. “We’re in public.”

“It’s so good, though,” Harry says. “You’ve got to try this.” He grabs a piece of duck off his plate with his fork and offers it to Louis, who leans down to carefully pick it off with pursed lips. He chews and his eyes widen. 

“Mmh,” he says and Harry laughs. “Hey, try this,” Louis say, offering up his fork. They go back and forth a couple of times, comparing the contents of their plates until the food’s been completely cleared off the table. 

Harry sprawls in his chair with his thighs spread, nudging his foot against Louis’ ankle. It’s quite unsightly, he knows, but people seem too focused on their food and the bride to care about some popstar with no manners. 

His drink is gone, too, and he’s pleasantly full, buzzed and happy; the sun is not quite setting around them, but very definitely edging closer to the horizon, and it surprises him how much time has passed between arriving just after noon and now. 

He perks up a bit to speak, but then sees that Louis has suddenly gone all rigid and aware again, sitting up straight and watching the tables around them. Even though he should know better, it takes Harry’s muddled brain a few moments to find Jake and his girlfriend at one of the tables not too far away. They’re both not looking, but Louis seems uncomfortable anyway. 

“Hey,” Harry starts gently. He scoots closer in his chair and touches his fingers against Louis’ wrist, letting them linger there for just a moment. Louis’ head jerks around, eyes round, but he doesn’t pull away. “Just ignore him,” Harry continues. “He’s so not worth the effort.” He squeezes Louis’ wrist. “He’s really not worth you worrying over him and letting him spoil your fun here.” Louis looks down and Harry can’t help but scoot even closer. “I also got us a bottle of champagne and it’s still on ice,” he says. “Shouldn’t let that go to waste, now, right?”

Louis inhales and exhales and then finally seems to relax. His body shifts toward Harry’s and he nods. “Alright.” He nudges his foot back against Harry’s, shifting to hook their ankles together. “Open the bottle?” 

“Sure,” Harry says and grabs the bottle from the bucket. 

“Don’t hit me in the face,” Louis warns, leaning away but not breaking the contact between them. 

“Heh.” Harry works the foil around the cork until he can get to it, smirking. “That’s what she said.”

“Or he,” Louis shoots back, face blank. 

“Right.” Harry pops the cork carefully, managing to pull it off without causing too much of a ruckus. “Didn’t need to know that.”

Louis smirks and waves his glass at him, which Harry fills first, then his own. They settle back into their chairs, sipping their drinks. Jake is watching them now and Harry meets his eyes shortly before looking away as to not draw Louis’ attention to it. 

“This isn’t too bad, actually,” Louis finally says, sipping at his drink. “We haven’t done anything together in ages. I mean, just the two of us, right?”

Harry hums in agreement. The air is settling around them a little, cooling down, the sky becoming gradually darker. He figures that the sun won’t be setting for a while still, but the heat of the day is giving way to a warm summer evening. “We’ve both been busy. With things.”

Louis laughs a little. “You’re always running off somewhere, that’s why.”

“Places to meet, people to do,” Harry says intentionally flippantly. “I dunno,” he continues. 

“ _Dunno_ ,” Louis imitates him, but not unkindly. He sighs and closes his eyes, looking very peaceful. Harry flicks his eyes back to Jake, who is again - or still - watching them. It makes him uneasy and he knows that it will, if it hasn’t already, make Louis uneasy too. 

“Hey, hey, Lou,” he waddles closer in his chair until its armrest knocks against Louis’. “Should we take this bottle for a walk?” 

“A walk?” Louis cocks his head, frowning, and Harry nods. 

He tilts his chin toward the lake, where benches are set out along the water, waiting for Louis to follow his gaze. “Yes, romantic date by the water?” He climbs to his feet, gathering up the bucked with the bottle, sticking their glasses in with the ice, then offers his free arm to Louis. “Allow me?” 

Louis’ lip curls, something between amusement and surprise, but he gets up and allows Harry to lead him toward the lake. “Was he watching for long?” he finally asks when they reach one of the benches, settling down with their backs to the tent. 

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Harry grabs the bottle from the bucket between his feet and fills up their glasses again. Louis makes disgruntled sound, but doesn’t say anything, wordlessly taking his glass and, almost instantaneously, a very large sip. 

“Hey,” Harry says. “To a pretty good night?” He offers his glass and Louis smiles, tight-lipped, clinking their glasses together gently, so Harry scoots closer and bends his body to put his head on Louis’ shoulder. They used to be all about physical contact back in the day, like they needed it to reassure each other that they were both real, that everything happening to them was real, needed each other to hold onto. 

Now, Harry’s surprised that Louis is letting him do this, maybe also surprised by how much of it is simple muscle memory for himself too. Louis stopped crawling under the blanket with him during film night or hugging him tightly after shows or staying up for late night talks with him almost two years ago; Harry figured that they had just grown apart a little, that Louis was trying to grow up maybe, and he never asked, choosing to respect the new ways in which Louis sought to connect. 

Harry sits up only to take a sip of his champagne, and then settles back in; Louis is watching him curiously, lips curled into a half-smile, and Harry reaches out and fits his fingers around his wrist, stroking gently where the joint sits.

A sigh shivers through Louis’ body and into Harry’s, and he shifts to withdraw his hand from Harry’s grasp and put his arm over his shoulder. He stays quiet, gently squeezing Harry’s shoulder where he can reach, and Harry allows all his weight to drop against him, staring out at the water. It feels like all playing the part of Louis’ date is about is them falling back into old habits that Harry thought were lost long ago.

“Let’s do a film night next week,” he says before the thought has even fully formed in his head. “Just you and me, yeah? Like old times.”

Louis chuckles, pets his head. “Aren’t you going to L.A. next week? Or something?”

Harry can’t remember, is too lazy to fish out his phone and trawl through his calendar to find out. “Let’s figure something out either way, yeah?”

Louis’ responding hum resonates through his chest and shoulder into Harry, who wiggles his toes at the sound. He doesn’t know what to say and it’s nice, this quiet between them, with Louis’ body warm against his own. He had forgotten how much he’d missed this and it’s strange how easy it was to go back here. 

They go through two more glasses each, just sitting there and watching the lake, until the ice in the bucket has melted, the champagne beginning to taste stale. Harry, his neck starting to feel cramped, sits up and stretches, putting his arm over Louis’ shoulder. “Should we get back?” he asks.

Louis mumbles a _yes_ and they gather their things to wander back to the tent where the cake has been wheeled into the center, people cheering around it. They take a seat at their table again and Harry watches, feeling slightly dazed from all the champagne, as the cake cutting commences and, just as the sun starts setting, girls and women of all ages gather by the lake for the throwing of the bouquet. 

Louis is engrossed in a conversation with a girl at their table and Harry tries to follow along, but realizes that he can’t be bothered when a waiter offers him a large chunk of cake. He settles back to eat and watch the sun creep down further and further into the blackening woods on the other side of the lake. 

Lanterns everywhere begin lighting up in batches, illuminating everything softly. Half-way through his mountain of cake, Harry grabs another drink off a passing by waiter, unsure of the content and not caring.

“I think I’ll go and find Anita, are you alright here?” Louis suddenly asks, turning around. “Or do you want to come with?”

“Yes,” Harry says, blinking. “I mean, I’m alright here. I’ll just finish my cake and then mingle.”

“Mingle away,” Louis says with a smile. He grabs his glass, and weaves through crowd to a seemingly set destination which Harry takes note of. 

The cake proves, eventually, to be too much of a challenge, and he reluctantly has to give up almost a third of it; he proceeds to follow his plan of mingling, finding conversation here and there, allowing people to take a few selfies when they ask nicely. 

Soon he’s engrossed in a conversation about yoga with one of Louis’ aunts, when a prickling sensation has him turn around to spot Louis standing just outside the tent in a group of people that includes Jake. 

The expression on his face speaks volumes and Harry excuses himself, carefully snaking through the gaps between groups of people so he can wiggle in besides Louis, his arm casually draping around Louis’ waist. 

“Hiya,” he says, raising his glass in a toast to everyone. “I’m Harry, hi.” He pulls Louis closer and clinks glasses with everyone, smiling pointedly at Jake. Louis elbows him sharply, but Harry, determined, stays put and ducks down to whisper against Louis’ ear. “You looked miserable.” To his surprise, Louis freezes first, then snorts and shakes his head. His curves his body more against Harry’s, and he fits their hips together. 

“He’s a handsy drunk,” Louis says into the group; Harry pouts, feeling more affronted than he should probably be.

“Everyone’s a handsy drunk when you’re squeezed together like beans in a can.” He pretends he’s unable to move and earns a round of laughs. Louis shifts around a bit, but ends up leaning into him even more, and Harry simply goes with it, rubbing his waist, pressing his thumb into his hip gently. 

The conversation picks up again and soon everyone’s laughing and joking around; Jake is, to Harry great contempt, quite funny and the group is pleasant. Louis is enthusiastically talking, gesturing, and Harry keeps him close, can’t help but watch him. At some point, Louis has lost his glass and slid his hand under Harry’s suit jacket, rubbing over his back, and Harry feels sensitive, tingling and almost ticklish. 

The bride and groom head to the floor for the first dance and soon others join them. Harry tugs Louis closer by his belt to lean down and whisper against him, “Would you like to dance?”

Louis tiptoes, gently holding Harry’s chin, to whisper back, “I’ve seen you dance, I won’t risk it.”

His lips are hot against Harry’s ear, his fingers just a bit calloused, and Harry holds his breath, his heart racing. The group starts to disperse before he can collect his thoughts, though, and Louis gives him one last pat before vanishing along with them, leaving Harry with his blood pounding in his ears. 

It is, he argues with himself, stumbling a little as he makes his way to where he remembers the loo, in part the alcohol, but there is something else, and it makes his insides pull together tightly. 

He takes a piss, washes his face, and reemerges to a dancefloor full of people, gets pulled in by a gaggle of aunts, dances stupidly until he’s sweaty and laughing and helping them pirouette. He almost falls a few times, catches himself to everyone’s amusement. 

There’s a girl, too, who hands him a bottle of water which he gulps down desperately, and who dances stupidly with him, both of them laughing at each other, making sure the other doesn’t fall. They end up by the buffet tables, gasping for air and laughing, drinking more water, shaking their heads at the old ladies’ staminas, talking about the lanterns and the cake and the food and how pretty the lake is. 

If she told Harry her name, though, he forgets it the moment Jake’s girlfriend passes them by, looking almost worried. He jogs after her, taps her shoulder lightly to get her attention. 

“Hey,” he says. “Have you seen Louis?”

She frowns at him like she doesn’t recognize him and then shakes her head. “I didn’t. I’m looking for Jake.” She scans the dance floor again and then ducks off, and Harry’s stomach flips uncomfortable. He returns to the girl by the buffet table and grabs another bottle of water. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve got to go and find my friend.” Her reply gets lost in the music and the sound of the crowd as Harry pushes through, weaving around and craning his neck for a fleck of Louis’ familiar grey suit or his hair. 

When the dance floor and the rest of the tent come up empty, he braves the gardens, wandering along the lake, eyes narrowed to see in the faint light of the lanterns. He checks bench after bench occupied with couples, until he reaches the end of the hotel grounds and starts wandering back, shoulders sagging, heart heavy.

He knows he’s being unreasonable - if Louis decided he needed some time alone with Jake, he shouldn’t be interfering; but he’s worried about him, worried that Louis is about to get hurt all over again, and worried that they’re doing more than just talking. 

He’s almost back by the hedges when suddenly, Louis’ voice from not too far away piques his ears. He starts jogging toward it, coming to a halt by a little grove, beautifully lit with more lanterns. Louis is, just like Harry suspected, with Jake, leaning against one of the birch trees, Jake standing too close for Harry’s comfort. 

“I mean it,” Jake’s saying, reaching out, but then not touching Louis. Harry feels his throat tighten, his heart beating fast.

“Hey,” he says much more loudly than necessary, approaching in long steps, trying to look more sober than he feels. “I was looking for you.” He waves at Louis, who stares back, mouth half open. 

“Sorry, mate,” Jake says, “we were having a private conversation.”

“Oh, sorry.” Harry stops short of two feet from them, grasping the trunk of a tree for balance. “I didn’t realize.” He knows he should leave - and leave them alone and let them work it out, whatever there is to work out, but his heart is hammering and making him unreasonable. He hates the expression on Louis’ face, hates that Jakes must’ve made him feel that way. “Your girlfriend was also looking for you. Mate.” 

There’s a long pause after that and Harry wishes he could look at Louis and see his face., but he doesn’t want to lose this tiniest of battles he’s having, staring Jake down. A part of Harry understands that Louis can take care of himself and more importantly, that he, Harry, has no actual claim, that he doesn’t know what they were talking about, but he can’t help feeling protective and maybe, also, possessive. 

“Right,” Jake finally says, looking away. “Thanks.” He turns on his heels and stomps off, and Harry watches him go. 

“Wanker,” he whispers under his breath, but when he turns around, Louis is staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and anger. It seems to build for a few seconds like he’s struggling to contain it, but then fails.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he snaps. 

“I’m,” Harry starts, at a loss for words. “I was worried, so I came looking for you.” He shrugs. “I’m supposed to, right? I’m supposed to be with you today and make sure you’re okay.”

“What?” Louis takes a step back, shaking his head. “Not like that, what the-” He stops again, face dark. “This was important, what the bloody hell were you thinking?”

Harry winces, shaking his head, suddenly feeling angry. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get hurt,” he says. “Jake’s a wanker, _he_ ran off and banged some girl while you were away, _you_ told me that. He’s not worth a second of your time.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, can’t keep the frown off his face, full of defiance. “If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t let you bloody talk to him, I wouldn’t let him make you feel like shit again.”

“First off,” Louis retorts, “you’re _not_ , okay, you’re not my boyfriend-”

“I said if I _were_ ,” Harry interrupts, kicking his heel against the ground, staring at Louis. His heart is racing and he feels tense all over, angry and like he’s been caught doing something stupid, dangerous. “But if I were I’d want you not to get hurt. That’s why-” 

Louis’ lip curls and he shakes his head. “How would you even know _anything_ about being anyone’s boyfriend,” he says loudly. “How would you even know what it feels like?” he continues harshly. “It’s not as if you’ve ever been in a proper relationship before. If you - or anyone - were my boyfriend I wouldn’t need permission to talk to anyone, and you can’t just barge in like that. You’re just drunk and don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Louis,” Harry starts but he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s going to cry, chest achy. 

“Just give me some space right now, okay.” Louis looks away, brows tightly knit together and pushes past Harry, walking back to the tents.

Harry leans against the birch tree and rubs his face, staring up into the canopy. “Fuck,” he mumbles, shaking slightly.

It takes him a couple of minutes to find his keycard, after that, to find his way back to the hotel and up into their room. He takes a shower, feeling numb, and discards his sweaty suit on the bathroom floor, almost toppling over while he pulls on a clean pair of briefs to sleep. 

The bed is cool when he crawls in, curling up under the covers, and he’s prepared to spend the night with just his own body heat to warm it up, when the door opens and Louis enters. Harry stays quiet while Louis takes a shower as well and changes into his pajamas in the bathroom, he’s quiet when Louis slips into bed besides him, but then can’t be quiet anymore when Louis won’t say anything for a full ten minutes even though his breathing tells Harry that he’s awake. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles. He worms closer and Louis scoots away, batting at him. “I’m drunk,” Harry says, “I lost my head for a moment. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

Louis remains silent, though, and Harry continues to crawl closer to sneak his arms around Louis and pull him into a hug to get a reaction out of him. 

“Fucking stop that,” Louis hisses, kicking his feet to get away. They roll over, wrestling shortly, knees knocking together, until they end up much like before, with Harry’s arms tightly around Louis’ waist. He keeps holding on, and Louis’ resistance dies down more quickly than Harry really anticipated. 

“Whatever, do what you want,” Louis finally says. “But give me a little more room.” He elbows Harry in the stomach and Harry moves, allowing Louis to scoot away from the edge of the bed. They rearrange their limbs, shift pillows, until they’re both settled in more comfortably, another awkward silence spreading between them. 

“Were you- Are you very cross with me?” Harry gnaws on his lip, squeezing Louis’ waist again. “Was it really that important?”

“I’m not. I don’t think.” Louis sighs and then finally shrugs. “And I don’t know. Maybe. He was drunk, too, I guess. He was just trying to apologize for how things went down. Bit late.” He seems to relax more, breathing softly. “He’s always been like that, late with apologizing. He cheated on me once before Mila, but I guess she was the real deal this time.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, moves to rub Louis’ belly instead, trying to go for soothing. Finally, he says, “Why did you stay with him? Why didn’t you break up earlier?”

Unexpectedly, Louis softly laughs at that. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not easy being with me. You know, with all the travelling and shit like that. The media and everything. I guess he just- was willing to put up with me?”

“Willing to put up with you,” Harry repeats slowly. “You’re not-” He stops again, trying to find the right words, unable to come up with anything. “You’re not hard to put up with, Lou. You’re brilliant.”

Louis snorts. “Right.” Another silence; Harry closes his eyes and presses his nose against Louis’ neck, holding him close. “Like I said, you don’t know anything about what it’s like to be in a relationship,” Louis adds.

His words from before suddenly echo in Harry’s had and have him hurting again. “I know what it’s like to be in love,” he says.

Louis hms. “Yeah, but that’s not the same. You’re just not boyfriend material, are you?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that - he’s never given much thought to whether or not he is, to what it is exactly that he wants from a relationship, and things have worked out fine so far. Louis doesn’t sound angry, now, though, just honest. 

“So, like, hypothetically, you couldn’t imagine being with me?” Harry asks. 

Louis doesn’t answer for a long time, so long that Harry thinks he won’t anymore, has fallen asleep or is ignoring the question entirely. He sounds careful when he says, “It’s less about what I can imagine, right?”

Harry mulls the answer over in his head until the words are jumbled and devoid of meaning; still he’s not sure what Louis is really saying. “Dunno,” he mumbles. “I’ve been with boys before, you know.” 

Louis makes a sound and then, patronizingly, pats his hand. “That’s not what I mean, Haz,” he says gently. Silence spreads between them again, Louis’ breathing growing slower. Harry’s mind can’t let go, though; he’s thinking about Louis’ words by the grove, trying to replay them, trying to make out where he went wrong, how he was feeling.

“I can imagine it, you know, being with you,” he admits, more to himself than anyone else, but Louis swallows audibly. He doesn’t say anything, however, and Harry wishes he would. He’s finding it hard to focus, though, to stay awake and not fall asleep with his cheek pressed to Louis’ worn and flimsy cotton sleep tee. 

“This is weird,” Louis says after a while. “We haven’t shared a bed in how long? Two years?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Something like that.”

Louis sighs, settles in more. “‘s good, though. You’re warm, like a human nuclear reactor.” His voice is getting fainter and fainter, like he’s drifting off. 

“Hn,” Harry says; he’s going for something else, something he can’t quite remember just after he’s thought of it, and his tired brain can’t seem to want to keep working. “I’m gonna sleep now,” he says and Louis sort of laughs, his back rising and falling against Harry’s chest. 

Harry entangles their legs, hooking his ankles over Louis’ calves and holds him there, breathing deeply against him. Louis’ tummy is soft against his hands, his hipbones sharp, he smells like earthy lavender, just like Harry from the hotel shower gel, and he’s already fallen asleep - Harry takes these details in as he drifts off, and they linger in the space beyond the grey as sleep takes him. 

*

 

Harry wakes up on his belly, cheek pressed into his pillow, drooling; there’s a ticking coming from the window, and it’s what woke him up, too. It’s insistent and for a few seconds he thinks Louis is standing outside their hotel room, tossing pebbles against the glass, until his sleepy eyes make out a tiny bird, pecking against the window.

He fumbles for his phone and take a picture, not even quite awake, and then, groaning, rolls onto his back and rubs at his eyes. The hammering in his head is insistent and _terrible_ , like an army of tiny dwarves with tiny sledgehammers just beneath his skull. He’s also sporting an even more painful morning stiffy, that makes him wince as he moves. 

Louis isn’t anywhere to be seen and his side of the bed feels long cold; Harry closes his eyes again and focuses on getting his erection to die down just enough for him to take a piss. He flexes his thighs, breathing steadily with his stomach flipping only slightly, until it’s finally flagged enough for him to crawl out of bed and go to the loo. 

His suit, on the floor last night, is stuffed into a laundry collection bag, and the shower is still wet, evidently from Louis getting ready in the morning. Harry wiggles out of his underwear and steps into the stall, still hard, pressing his forehead against the warming tile while water rains down on him.

He still feels muddled, not quite awake, but the steady pressure of the water against his head is making it slightly better. He shifts a bit, the head of his cock bumping against the tiles, and hisses at the cold contact. There’s not much he can do, other than wait or wank, and Harry isn’t a friend of letting good morning wood go to waste. 

He tugs on his erection, quickly working up speed, moaning softly; it’s lucky, really, that he slept so long that even Louis was awake before him, that Louis is already gone now. It’d have made for a very awkward morning, waking up with his cock pressed against Louis’ arse. 

The thought sends a shiver through him, though, and despite his best efforts to stop it, calls forth memories from last night where Louis allowed Harry to touch him, the sensation of his body against Harry’s, his breath against Harry’s ear. 

He comes with a strangled groan, shooting off against the tiles, breathing hard. The soles of his feet are tingly with it, back prickling, and he can’t stop thinking, still, about Louis’ body against his own. 

He washes his hair, ties it up, wet, in a bun, and gets dressed to saunter outside; it’s long past noon already, and downstairs and in the garden waiters are cleaning up the remnants of a brunch or very late breakfasts. A few guests linger, but it seems like much of the more senior crowd from yesterday has already left. Louis, however, is nowhere to be seen. Harry wanders around between the hedges, letting the sun burn down on him. It’s quiet outside now, save for a few conversations here and there and the sounds of dishes being removed, and it feels weird and in such stark contrast to yesterday’s celebrations. 

Through another set of hedges and across a tiny bridge, Harry finds a bench by the creek to eat the fruit he’s picked up on the way, stomach rumbling a little. It wants something greasy - fried eggs and sausages - but Harry’s acutely aware that he needs to replenish minerals or he’ll just continue feeling utterly shitty for the rest of the day, so he wolves down two tangerines and a banana before lying back against the bench.

It’s getting hot out now, and he’s glad that he just chose to forgo formality altogether and went for jeans and a T-shirt. With the sun warming his face and hair, Harry stays like that for a while, but blinks his eyes open when somebody casts a shadow over him. 

“‘lo?” he manages and sits up. It’s Anita, Louis’ cousin, the bride, looking very apologetic. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She shrugs, smoothes her hair down. 

“Oh, no.” Harry smiles at her. “It’s alright. Congratulations by the way. How does it feel?”

She laughs and shrugs again, shifting, and then finally sits down next to him. “Very, very odd. I mean, it’s brilliant. Just the feeling that the wedding is now over and something new will happen?” The way she glances up at him tells Harry that she knows very well who he is; he’s grateful that she doesn’t say anything, though. He nods. 

“I can imagine. But there’s another reception tonight, isn’t there? So, in a way you get to do it all over again.” 

“That’s true!” She leans back, kicking her feet against the trimmed grass. “Are you staying for it? We’ve got some great things planned. There’ll be fireworks.”

“I’d love to,” he starts, remembering what Louis told him yesterday; he doesn’t want to leave, though, wants another shot at hanging out with Louis and also doesn’t like the idea of Louis, unattended, alone with Jake again. “If it’s okay?” 

Anita makes delighted noise and pats his shoulder, getting up. “Of course! By the way, if you’d like some breakfast, I’m sure there’s some from the buffet left inside!” She checks her watch, sighing. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be seeing you at the reception!” She walks off toward the tents, waving as she goes.

As it turns out, there is indeed breakfast left in the restaurant. Harry, caving to his cravings, finds a table and some food, having tea while scrolling through his emails first, then Twitter. Surprisingly, the fallout is a lot smaller than expected, but rumors are still flying high. There’s an email from Sarah, too, consisting of nothing but question marks, and Harry chooses to ignore for the time being. He texts Louis a _good morning! Where’d you go?_ , and then watches a couple of funny videos while finishing his eggs. 

Louis finds him like that half an hour later, with Harry through his third cuppa and now scrolling through his Twitter mentions. He doesn’t notice Louis at first, focused on his phone, but looks up when Louis clears his throat, standing by his table. He sits down and grabs a piece of dry toast off Harry’s plate, chewing, tapping Harry’s phone with its corner. 

“Hiya,” Harry says. He locks his phone and straightens his back, fishes for his cup for a sip of tea. Louis doesn’t appear nearly as tired as he, which is very much not like him - but he also wasn’t as drunk as Harry the night before, which, incidentally, is also very much not like him. “What’s up?”

Louis rolls his shoulders slowly in what appears to be a shrug. “Not a whole lot. Had a walk around the lake. It’s nice.” He stops, stuffing more toast into his mouth, then continues, still chewing. “How long’ve you been up for? Did you ring for a driver already?”

Harry can’t help but pull a face at that. “For a while? Since one, I think?” He glances at his watch where the big hand is grazing the _3_ now. Louis laughs, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Anita invited to me to say for the reception tonight?” He takes a big sip of his tea, watching Louis over the rim of his cup, trying to gauge his reaction. “If it’s alright with you,” he adds. “I can leave, if you’d rather I leave.” 

Louis’ face softens and he shakes his head. “No, no, of course not. Stay if you want to. It’ll be fun.” 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks tentatively.

“I am, it’s alright, no explosions on Twitter or anything so far,” Louis explains and Harry grins. 

“Sarah sent me an email, though.” He holds his phone up to show it to Louis and Louis laughs again. 

“Maybe I’ll call her later and warn her that you’re staying, lest the Daily Mail start printing about secret romantic getaways or some other shit.” He takes Harry’s cup from him and finishes off his tea, wincing. “Too much milk, Harry, this is disgusting.” 

Harry kicks Louis ‘ shin under the table and says, “Make your own bloody tea, then.” 

Louis mumbles something into the cup, then finally puts it down. “I think I’ll take a nap while I can. I’m knackered.”

Harry tilts his head, letting the joints crack, and then nods. “I might go for a run. Brought my gear and everything. When should I be back?”

Louis’ brow quirks, but he doesn’t comment on Harry’s running habits. “Dunno.” He looks at his watch. “I guess it starts again at six?”

“Cool, cool.” Harry clears his throat, feeling awkward. “Should we?” he offers and they clear the table together, then head back upstairs in the tiny lift. 

A part of Harry, the one that he’s allowing to consciously think about all of this, had expected Louis to keep a distance after last night, like he has in the past, but he doesn’t even flinch when Harry squeezes closer to hit the button for their floor on the number pad behind his back. Instead, he curves his body to the side, steadies himself with one hand on Harry’s hip. He’s studying Harry’s face with alert eyes, but looks away Harry catches him doing so.

Back in their hotel room, Louis chucks off his clothes and crawls into bed in nothing but his undies, lying down face first and curled around a pillow. It’s hard not to admire the curve of his back and his arse, and Harry stops in the door and stares, unashamed. There’s nothing about Louis’ body that he hasn’t seen dozens and dozens of times before and there is also nothing absolutely new about the fact that he appreciates the way Louis is so compact and smooth, the thickness of his thighs or the curve of his belly and bum. Harry’s not blind after all. The context is another somehow, though, and that makes all the difference. Louis, suddenly, seems accessible again. 

Harry tears himself away and goes digging for his stuff in his bag, changing into his gear by the dresser. When he squats down to tie his laces, he notices Louis watching him, half his face smushed into his pillow, only one eye popped open, blinking slowly like a lazy, sleepy cat. 

“You’ve been working out a lot, huh? I noticed last night.” he asks, voice just a tad rough from almost-sleep, and Harry laughs, feeling blood rush into his face, heating up his cheeks. 

“A bit,” he says, scratching his head. “Just a lot of running and weights, like always.” 

“Hn,” Louis says. He stretches, pulls the covers over himself and wiggles his toes against the mattress, but doesn’t stop looking at Harry as if he would be absolutely okay with Harry climbing into bed with him right now. Harry blushes more, feels it spread down his neck and chest. Even without knowing if he’s reading Louis right, he suddenly wants all of that so much that it hurts to force himself to look away, that it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done is grab his phone, heart racing, and jog out the door before he can come up with any more bad ideas.

 

*

 

Louis, it turns out, has far less inhibitions getting wasted once all of his aunts aren’t around to bear witness; he starts off with a few beers, shares three or four between himself and Harry at their table, and then like clockwork moves on to mojitos, cheeks soon pink with it. 

Harry’s plans to stay sober and be good are out the window the minute he sets foot in the reception tent turned nightclub and spots Louis. He looks smaller out of his suit, less regal in a motif T-shirt and jeans with his scruff starting to show, more familiar even though Harry has seen him in a suit countless times. But this - T-shirts and jeans and laughing freely - this is more the Louis Harry knows. 

Harry joins him at his table with a few of what seem to be old friends from Doncaster; he has a beer and then another and before he knows it they’ve all spread out and he's halfway through his second Sex on the Beach, with the music pounding around them and bodies pressed against his own by the bar, having lost Louis to the crowd despite his best efforts not to. 

Everything is a blur already - he remembers talking with one of Louis’ friends for a while at the table, music and art and history, and remembers Louis’ thigh pressed against his own from the sheer number of people crammed together. Louis, too, was talking animatedly, but Harry has no recollection at all of what he was talking about. It feels like a lifetime ago and Harry is finding it hard to focus on anything but the music and the bodies in his immediate vicinity. 

Louis can’t be too far, though, Harry thinks - hopes -, but with the lights barely on and the sun setting already, it’s hard to tell which of the countless white T-shirts gleaming in the black-light is Louis’. It’s only a little consolation to Harry that Jake seems to have chosen to stick with another group of people for the night, his arm constantly draped over his girlfriend’s shoulders as far as Harry can tell - not that he has been watching them. 

He takes a sip from the bottle of water that one of the barmen placed before them earlier and then goes back to his cocktail, bobbing his head along to the beat of the music; the girl next to him is talking, still, her hand on Harry’s arm. She’s from their table, tall and blonde, a bit of a foxy face with sharp angles and high cheekbones, and Harry doesn’t mind her. She also smells like something deep, mystic that makes Harry lean in, nodding at something she said.

She laughs and grips his arm harder, then pulls away to tug at his curls. “Did you even hear a word I said?” she asks. 

“Don’t know,” he says, grinning. “Can you say it again, love?” 

She seems to want to say something, red lips curling, but stops, brow cocked. From behind Harry, Louis’ voice says, “He’s a shit flirt, isn’t he?”

“Sorta,” she says, smiling cheekily at Harry. “Maybe a bit.”

Louis wedges himself between them, body pressed against Harry’s. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, but Cathy was looking for you,” he says and she cranes her head for her friend, mouth forming a little, _oh_ and steps away, waving. 

“A shit flirt,” Harry repeats at Louis, brow raised, and Louis nudges him; Harry nudges back and then catches him around the hips when Louis begins to stumble. “I’ve always been a _perfect_ gentleman.” 

“Hah,” Louis snorts, but doesn’t pull away, leaning into Harry’s touch instead, shaking his head. “Joke of the _century_ right here.” 

“You’re not being very nice,” Harry says. He’s not half as offended as he’s making it out to be - there is something about the way Louis is looking at him that proves to be a much bigger distraction to Harry. 

“I’m always nice,” Louis says with a grin. “Or was it that you wanted to get with her?”

Harry laughs shortly and then tilts his head in fake consideration. He didn’t, not really, but the way Louis is asking makes him want to say yes just to tease him. “Maybe,” he replies.

Louis frowns at that and shakes his head, pinching Harry’s hips. Harry tries to wiggle away, hissing when Louis does it again. “Well, you can’t,” he says. “You’re my date for the night, remember?” It’s still there, the look on his face that Harry can’t quite place but it makes his stomach flip nonetheless. “Plus, she’s got a boyfriend, so you’re shit out of luck with this one.”

“Didn’t seem that way to me, man,” Harry replies. Louis bumps into him again suddenly, this time jostled forward by the movement of the crowd. Harry’s back hits the bar hard with Louis all but pressed against him. He clears his throat, blindly grabbing of for his drink, keeping Louis close by with a hand around his waist. “She was doing the thing, you know, when they show you their neck?” he continues, taking a sip from his cocktail. 

Louis’ eyes widen first, then narrow. “Her neck?” he says, shifting. He doesn’t seem too comfortable with people brushing past him constantly, with how they’re caught between the bar and the dancing crowd, and for a moment Harry has to fight the urge to turn them both around and shield Louis’ body with his own like he would for a girl - or any other boy for that matter. Louis would, however, only be cross with him for it. Harry snaps back, refocusing. 

He nods. “Yeah, like, when they wanna fuck. I read that it’s a body language thing.” He swallows tightly, scanning Louis’ face, and Louis wets his lips and tilts his head a little to the side, exposing the tendon of his shoulder, his collarbone and neck, staring up at Harry.

“Like so?” he asks and Harry holds his breath, feeling his face heat up. Louis purses his mouth but doesn’t stop, reaching up to push his hair from his forehead, tattoos on his arm standing out. He casts his eyes down, lashes fanning out, before he looks back up again, pupils blown as he meets Harry’s stare. He’s plastered, Harry realizes suddenly, probably just as much as he is, and Harry wants to lean in and suck a mark into his neck just to see if Louis will let him. 

“Yeah,” he manages, throat dry. 

“Mhm.” Louis keeps looking at him, then presses closer when a knot of people push past them again. His grip on Harry’s hip tightens, thumb pressing in, and Harry holds his breath and counts to three, his heart racing, but then nudges his nose against Louis’ ear anyway, pulling him up and close by the small of his back. “Like so, yeah,” he mumbles and feels Louis shiver, exhale audibly. He’s warm, unexpectedly pliant, but before Harry can form a coherent thought, Louis is pulling away with a hand on Harry’s chest. 

“Let’s do shooters,” he says, wiggling past Harry.

Harry nods stupidly, turning around and making space for Louis by the bar. Louis orders tequila shooters for them both and Harry goes through the routine twice, wincing at the sting of the liqueur and the lemon, stomach knotting terribly. He washes the taste away with two big gulps of water, groaning, and drops his head on Louis’ shoulder. 

“You’re horrible,” he complains and Louis’ chest vibrates with a laugh. “That was horrible. If I puke, I’ll make you clean it up.”

“Sexy,” Louis says into his hair and Harry pulls away, his nose brushing Louis’ cheek, and Louis’ fingers trace a line up his neck and into his hair, digging in, massaging against his scalp. Harry groans, shivers, and presses closer, boxes Louis in against the bar, still feeling unsteady and just a tiny bit nauseous. 

“Was she your type?” Louis asks quite suddenly, tugging a bit at Harry’s hair.

“What,” Harry asks, confused for a moment, hissing when Louis wraps a strand around his finger.

“Amy, that girl, is she your type? Would you shag her, if you could?” Louis elaborates, tugging harder. “If you could.” 

“Dunno, she’s fit, I guess,” Harry says, frowning. It gets harder to focus when Louis keeps twisting, pulling him in closer. 

“If you could, huh,” Louis says and looks away. Harry frames his hips with his hands, dropping them from the bar, and moves closer until one of his legs pushes between Louis’ thighs to steady them both. Louis is watching him through narrow eyes and Harry squeezes his waist gently. He looks like he’s waiting for something, but Harry can’t tell what it is.

He considers him for a few seconds, then asks, “Are you- would you be jealous, if she was my type? If I was your actual boyfriend?”

Louis laughs at that, shifts in Harry’s grip. “If I were, I’d know there’s no point being jealous. It’s the way you are, Harry, right?” He drops his hand from Harry’s hair, pats his cheek, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone, then the bridge of his nose before barely ghosting it over his bottom lip and chin and pulling away entirely.

Harry wants to tell him not to go off on his own making assumptions, but the words are stuck in his throat and he’s not sure if whatever he comes up with won’t make it worse. For now, he’s got Louis close, comfortable, warm, and willing to have Harry’s hands on him. Harry is scared to tip the scales against his favor, so he just smiles sheepishly.

Louis hms thoughtfully and pokes his stomach, leaning up. “Can you order us two pints? You’ve got me pinned down.” He wiggles against the bar, creating more friction between their bodies, and Harry, overwhelmed, complies, waving the bartender to place their order over Louis’ shoulder. 

They clink glasses, keep eye contact as they drink, and Harry wishes he could find something to say. It must show on his face because Louis smiles at him and says, “You look like you’re thinking really hard.”

“Just trying to, you know, make sure you’re having a good time and all,” he says; it’s not too far off from the truth, and if Louis realizes it’s not quite that, he doesn’t let it show.

“I’m good,” he says. “I’m alright.” He lifts his hips up into Harry’s touch and takes another sip, then curses loudly when he’s jostled by a guy squeezing past them to the bar.

“Shit,” he says, wiping beer off his face. “Can we-” He gestures further down the bar and Harry nods, taking a few quick sips, following Louis, further down the bar, trying to keep up. He’s stopped by the girl from last night, the one from the dancefloor who shared her water and made sure he was alright, and hugs her back tightly. After they separate he finds Louis waiting for him to catch up. 

When he does, the tension between them has changed somehow, in ways that Harry finds impossible to define; they find a spot at the tail end of the tent, quietly sipping their beers and watching the crowd. Louis leans against one of the pillars, one arm across his tummy. Harry hesitates and then steps closer, clinking their glasses together again, throat tight. 

“You look really fit tonight,” he says, lacking anything else to say. All the familiarity that’s built up before seems lost and he wants it back desperately. He touches Louis’ elbow, his waist, but Louis shifts away minutely. 

“Are you trying to chat me up?” he says and Harry shrugs because he is. Louis must know it, too, and Harry doesn’t understand how his mood has changed so suddenly when he was so responsive just before.

“Do I still have to?” he replies slowly, testing the waters. He shuffles closer, waiting for Louis’ to open up again like he did before, but stops when he doesn’t. 

“What do you think?” Louis asks, looking up to meet his eyes and then away. “Why don’t you go find one of those girls you were talking to?” 

“I’m not really interested in them, honestly,” Harry says. Louis makes a frustrated noise, splays his hand out against Harry’s chest. He can’t move away, but Harry gets the hint, putting some distance between them again. 

“I’ve got to piss,” Louis grunts. He presses past Harry, tiptoeing like he wants to mumble something into Harry’s ear, but then doesn’t. Harry stares after until he’s swallowed by the crowd, feeling like the soles of his shoes are forged into the ground, unable to move to go after him.

It burns a bit, like he’s just been rejected, and he reckons he was. He takes another swig of his beer, squeezes back into the crowd and to the bar to get another drink, but is stopped on his way by a hand on his shoulder. It’s Amy, face heated from dancing, her lipstick a little smudged.

“Hi,” she says loudly over the music and Harry yells back, “Hey!” 

She tugs on his collar, grinning. “You wanna dance?” she asks. Harry hesitates but then knocks back the rest of his beer, finding a table to leave the bottle. 

“Sure,” he says, smiling and she approaches, swaying her body in rhythm with the music. He touches her hip gently and moves with her, closing his eyes and letting her press closer, her arms over his shoulders. 

They dance for a while, the music pounding around them, and Harry loses himself in it, head dizzy. After a while, she pulls away, moving her hands into his hair and tugging him closer. Harry blinks his eyes open, trying to make out her face in the darkness of the tent. 

“Hey,” she says. “I need some fresh air, can you walk me?”

Harry nods; she’s transparent in her request and probably knows it, too, but Harry’s sense of responsibility makes it impossible for him to refuse. She takes his hand, leading him out of the tent toward the lake. There’s no lanterns this time, just darkness, voices and music floating through the warm summer air.

Harry breathes in deeply, tipping his head back, letting go of her hand as she walks on ahead toward a little stone bench between the hedges. He catches up and she smiles at him, eyes wide in the dark, looking suddenly much less confident than before.

“It’s nice out here,” he says, looking up at the sky. “So many stars.” She follows his gaze, craning her neck a little but then steps closer, touching his neck, then his chest carefully. Her hands are warm and small, and her body presses right up against Harry’s. He frames her hips instinctively and she leans up and kisses him, gently licking into his mouth. He freezes first, then pulls away quickly, reaching up to catch her wrists when she tries to tug him down again. 

“I thought you needed some air,” he says and she just shrugs cutely. Harry clears his throat and tries, “Tommo also said you had a boyfriend.”

“Did he now?” she asks, pulling a face. “Can’t believe he’d do that. I don’t, if that’s what you were worried about, it’.” She goes in for another kiss, but Harry gently pulls away. Louis _lied_ and Harry’s mind is racing with the fact his first instinct was right to think he’d been jealous and trying to get Harry’s attention away from the girl. He steps away, feeling like an idiot for not seeing that more clearly sooner.

“I can’t do this, I’m sorry, love,” he says, her face falling. “You’re fantastic, and so, so fit,” he reassures her, stepping away. “But I really have got to go.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, shakes her head. “Shouldn’t have come out with me, then.”

“I’m so sorry, seriously,” he says again, taking a few more backwards steps. She combs her hair back and shrugs at him like she’s giving him permission to go, and Harry turns around and jogs back toward the lights of the party.

It’s dark in the tent, just flashes of light illuminating faces now and then, and Harry rounds the dance floor and the bar and then spots Louis by one of the softly glowing fountains at the edge of the tent. He’s not alone, standing with a group of people that Jake seems to be part of. Jealousy creeps up through Harry again, along with a hint of indignation that Louis left to find other people, maybe even to find Jake. Harry stops, hesitates for a few moments, watching Louis. 

He looks happy enough, but his body language is slightly defensive, the arm facing Jake crossed over his tummy; Harry fidgets, takes another step closer, and then Louis, like he’s felt Harry’s eyes on him, turns and looks at him, eyes widening slightly. Harry waves at him and jogs closer. 

Louis meets him halfway, stepping away from the group and the light of the fountain toward Harry still deeper in the belly of the dark, loud tent. “Hiya,” he says and Harry stops half a foot in front of him. He felt like he was going to explode, spill all his secrets once face to face with Louis, but now he can’t find anything to say.

“Hi,” he replies breathlessly. “Hi, I was looking for you.”

Louis’ mouth quirks, amused, and he shuffles his feet. “Well, you found me.”

Harry clears his throat and closes the distance between them. Louis visibly freezes but doesn’t move to step away. “You just left me there,” Harry bursts out quietly. He feels like it’s Year Four again and he’s trying to hand a love note to a girl he likes and she’s refusing to take it. 

Louis’ face does a funny thing and he steps closer of his own accord until he’s almost pressed up against Harry. He wipes his thumb over the blunt of Harry’s bottom lip and Harry inhales, surprised, catching his hand. 

“Seems like you found something to do, though,” he says and Harry blinks at him, dumbfounded and confused until Louis points out, “You’ve got lipstick or gloss or whatever all over your face.”

“Shit,” Harry says, embarrassed, mad at himself, and lets go of Louis’ hand to rub the back of his hand over his mouth. It comes back all smudged and red, and Harry now gets the look on Louis’ face.

“Was she a good kisser?” Louis asks, voice tight and Harry shakes his head quickly, reaching down to feel for Louis’ hand again. He finds it, trying to entwine their fingers, but Louis pulls away, narrowing his eyes at him. “Was she?”

“No,” Harry says. “I don’t know. She just kissed me. I didn’t-” He stops, trying to figure out if Louis is playing him, if he’s as seriously jealous as he looks and how much of it is augmented by the alcohol. Over by the fountain, in the group of people Jake suddenly laughs loudly, and Louis’ head jerks around, eyes wide. It’s a reflex, most likely, but it still stings bitterly. 

“But you found Jake again,” Harry blurts.

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “Wasn’t snogging him, though, what’s your point?” He steps closer still, tilting his chin up almost like he wants to fight Harry, rises up on his toes so they’re eye to eye. _I’m jealous, and I know you might be too_ , Harry wants to say, but doesn’t, instead leaning in to touch his nose against Louis’. 

“Good,” he says and Louis tries to pull away, but Harry cups his neck gently in one hand and his waist in the other, holding him in place. He doesn’t want to let go now that he’s got him, and Louis, too, relaxes after a moment, dropping his hands to Harry’s belt to hold on. 

Louis’ mouth moves, but Harry can’t make out if he’s saying anything at all, and then inches closer, their foreheads and noses docked. Harry wants to kiss him so badly that it hurts, that his lips feel tingly from phantom touches like he already has, but he’s scared still, hesitating even though Louis is just wiggling closer, fitting their hips together, his breath soft against Harry’s mouth.

The music picks up again and they start swaying with it, grinning like idiots as both their bodies find the same rhythm, Louis’ muscles shifting under Harry’s hand. They move further into the crowd where they’ll be hidden by the bodies moving around them, nothing but shadows in Harry’s limited field of vision. 

It’s sort of dark and deep, this song, something that resonates through him, hypnotic; he moves with it, gripping Louis’ waist tightly. Louis leans away to look at him, lips parted, trailing his hands up Harry’s body, over his abs and his chest to his shoulders, and links his hands behind Harry’s neck. He holds on as they move, a slow, languid pace, their bodies pressed together tightly.

Their faces are so close that Harry can feel his breath, can smell his cologne and the lavender scent of the shampoo from their hotel room. He wants to lean in and lick the sweat off Louis’ cupid’s bow and he does, hitching Louis up with two fingers hooked into one of the belt loops on his skinnies, thumbs pressing into his arse. 

He feels Louis’ breath stutter and presses closer to kiss him, but Louis evades to the side, nipping at his earlobe with sharp teeth instead. “Not here. Don’t be an idiot, Harry,” he breathes, like they’re not already grinding in the middle of a tent packed full of people. Harry groans in frustration and pushes one leg between Louis’ thighs, which, strangely, seems to fit with Louis’ idea of discretion. He moans, rolling his hips against Harry, the sound lost when the music picks up around them again.

With Louis’ body moving against his own, Harry moves his hands to his arse, squeezing, and Louis pulls him closer again, fingers digging into Harry’s neck. He bites his hear and whispers something that Harry can’t quite make out; in his head it turns into something dirty, has him haul Louis up against him. Even drunk he’s aware that they’re bound to be seen within the next couple of minutes, that no amount of phone calls with publishers and gag orders will save them. 

“We should go somewhere,” he manages, spinning Louis around by his hips in an attempt to guide him outside the tent.

“Impatient,” Louis says hoarsely; he stops, lets Harry’s chest collide with his back and drops his head against it and Harry can’t help but slide his hands around his waist, over his stomach and to the waistband of his jeans, hips twitching when Louis starts grinding against him. Louis reaches back and finds the front of Harry’s jeans, squeezing gently, and Harry gasps, knees buckling. He’s half-hard, well on his way to something a lot more than that, and he can feel Louis’ erection denting his trousers, too. 

“Louis,” he tries again. “Lou, please.” 

Louis shivers against him and then tenses up when something explodes in the night sky just outside the tent, the music fading. Another rocket shoots up into the sky from somewhere beyond the lake, bathing the tent in red and green light momentarily. It’s the fireworks that Anita promised this morning, and Harry realizes with a bang that the tent will lose any and all anonymity soon. Louis fumbles for Harry’s hand, apparently shocked into reason, and drags Harry along with him through the waiting crowd. They make it outside and past the hedges just as the sky lights up again and again, and they’re back at the hotel by the time everyone has started gathering around the lake to watch the fireworks. 

They take the stairs, stumbling and clinging to each other. Harry feels blinded by the bright light in the corridor, squinting when Louis lets them into their room, almost dropping the keycard. The sudden quiet, the half-light of the room engulfs Harry as soon as they enter, and he stops by the door, holding his breath, and closes it slowly behind his back, his heart suddenly pounding like it’s about to rupture. Louis, too, has stopped in the middle of the room, and when he notices Harry’s hesitation he nods at him. 

“Well?” he says. He sounds confident, but there’s something else there, a question, uncertainty maybe. Harry holds his gaze and toes off his shoes and tugs his T-shirt over his head before closing the distance between them. 

“Like this?” he asks and Louis takes an audible breath tilting his head back when Harry cups his face in his hands. 

“Like what?” Louis asks but Harry feels him swallow nervously. “You’re not doing anything, Styles.”

“Like this,” Harry repeats, more reassured. He counts, three, two, one, focuses on the way Louis’ skin feels under his fingers, the way he’s looking up at him, and then presses their lips together, pressing his body against Louis’ and gently opens up his mouth to lick inside.

“Just this,” he mumbles when they break apart momentarily, feels Louis’ breath quicken with excitement. Harry kisses him again, crowds him further into the room without stopping and feels dizzy when he has to pull away to breathe. 

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since like, hours. Hours,” he whispers and Louis arches up and bites his lower lip. His back curves against Harry’s hands and Harry takes the opportunity to slide them down to grab his arse, squeezing tentatively at first, then harder when Louis reacts by bucking his hips. 

“Hours?” Louis repeats. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out. “Or longer, like, a lot longer. Fuck-” He kneads Louis’ bum in his hands, but Louis’ jeans are in the way so he tucks his fingers past the waistband, pulling him closer. 

“Jesus, Harry.” Louis tries to laugh, but it comes out as a breathy moan and Harry is scared he’ll try to squirm out of his grip. Instead he cups the back of Harry’s neck and pulls him down, sucking into his mouth wetly, obscenely, moaning and rubbing his hand down Harry’s chest to his cock to squeeze him through the fabric of his skinnies. 

“You hard for me?” he asks and Harry nods, rocking against his hand. He wants to get Louis naked, or get on even ground at least, and extracts his hands from Louis’ jeans to help him out of his T-shirt. 

More fireworks from outside bathe Louis in soft light, his cheekbones dark shadows, eyes wide; Harry marches him toward the bed, ghosting his hands down his sides and up again, rubbing his thumbs over his nipples until Louis shies away, first moaning and then audibly holding his breath. 

“Bed?” he asks and Harry nods, replies, “Bed.” His tongue feels like molasses, like he can only just barely form words with it, so he uses his hands to talk, gingerly cupping Louis’ cheek in his hand, making short work of Louis’ flies with the other. 

Louis wiggles out of his jeans, leaves his underwear on and kneels on the bed, trailing kisses down Harry’s chest until his head is crowned by Harry’ laurels. It’s weird seeing this - Harry never thought he would, though, he has admittedly had fantasies like this maybe - and there is something about this now, the top of Louis’ head, his soft hair, his bird-bone shoulder blades standing out, that has Harry feeling like he’ll last for exactly half a second once Louis gets his hands on his cock. 

He takes a step to join Louis on the bed, but Louis stops him with his hands on Harry’s hips, looking up. “Don’t. Stay like that,” he says and presses a kiss to Harry’s navel, bites the tiny swell of Harry’s stomach and starts undoing his flies. 

“Oh god.” Harry takes a deep breath and then another, head spinning, staring as Louis dips his hand into Harry’s briefs and wraps it around his prick to pull it out. He’s fully hard, foreskin stretched, and Louis wraps his fingers around the base and gives him a few strokes until Harry feels like his knees are going to give in. 

Louis thumbs at the head, his fingers a bit rough, and pushes the foreskin down, and Harry sobs out a moan, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, Louis is looking up at him, kneeling with his thighs splayed, his own erection pressing against the light fabric of his briefs, staining it darkly. 

“I’m gonna blow you now, Harry,” Louis explains, allowing Harry to fuck into the circle of his fingers, and Harry wants him to say it again, wants to hear it again because it feels too surreal, like a fever dream. 

All he can say between breathy moans, though, is, “Yes, yeah, please, please-” He thinks he’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so distracted by the way Louis’ lips purse, and maybe he is a little even though he never is, never has had issues with begging before, but with Louis everything is different. Louis scoots back, walking on his knees, his dick twitching in his briefs, and hooks the waistband of Harry’s underwear under his sac, cradling it in his hand for a moment. 

Harry’s cock jerks, beads of precome pearling over the tip, and Louis wets his lips, leans in, still only gently holding Harry’s sac, and lets Harry’s cock bob up and against his lips. He sucks the head inside just seconds after, not giving Harry room to breath, and lips sliding wetly down the shaft; he works himself back up and down again, cheeks hollowing, moves his fingers to the base of Harry’s dick, holding it gingerly as he gets it slicker. 

Harry exhales sharply, gasps for air, and buries his hand in Louis’ hair, holding on, trying not to grip too tightly. Louis’ mouth is soft and warm, tight when he sucks, and his tongue a constant pressure to the sensitive underside. Every time he bobs down, spits dripping down Harry’s dick, his chin, cheeks red, he takes Harry deeper, until his nose hits his fingers and Harry can feel the very cusp of his throat. 

He picks up the pace then, twisting his hand up each time he pulls away, squeezing back down when he sucks Harry inside again. It gets sloppy, loud, and Harry tilts his head back, eyes closed and tries to remember to breathe, tries to remember not to hold onto Louis’ hair and buck up too much. His back is already burning with the urge to just fuck into Louis’ mouth, and he bites his lips, breathing hard through his teeth, finally letting out a relieved groan when Louis lets go of his cock and frames his hips with both hands, digging his fingers into his bum to encourage him to move. 

He does, thrusting into the suction of Louis’ lips, whimpering when Louis takes it; his face is all red, hair in his face, and he’s staring up, irises nearly wiped out by the black of his pupils. 

“Shit,” Harry croaks, thighs and abs tensing, vision narrowing; Louis, however, pulls away, wrapping two spit-wet fingers around the base of Harry’s cock, squeezing none too gently. 

“Don’t come yet, please,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand, and Harry half-laughs, hips bucking again. 

“That’s a bit difficult,” he says breathlessly. “You’re like-” He can’t find the words to finish, instead rubs his thumb over Louis’ swollen bottom lip and Louis flicks his tongue out to meet it. He grabs Harry’s wrists and pulls him down and on top of him until they can kiss again, moaning into each other’s mouths. 

They make quick work of Harry’s jeans and underwear, then Louis’ briefs, and Harry hisses when their cocks finally slide together. They rut against each other for a few moments, Harry’s cock caught in the V of Louis’ hips, tips pressing together every time Harry rides against him, keeping quiet with their lips locked. 

Louis breaks away after a minute or so, mewling, head dipped back, his throat exposed, and Harry latches onto it and snakes a hand between them to jerk him off. He’s so slick, his foreskin sliding easily, and he starts rolling his hips in time with Harry’s hand, his fingers pressing into Harry’s arms. 

“Fuck,” he mouths and again, “fuck, fuck-” His thighs fall open, knees drawn up, and Harry sits back to get a good look at him, twisting his hand with every other upstroke, Louis’ prick twitching. 

Louis whimpers again, belly curving, and slides his hands over the insides of his own thighs, holding himself open; he’s staring at his cock, where the head is pink and swollen, and then looks up at Harry, mouth slack, eyes dark. 

“You wanna come?” Harry asks, shifting his hips a bit, kneeling between Louis’ thighs, and slows down a little, before speeding up again. More precome leaks from the tip of Louis’ cock, making it even easier. Harry thumbs the thick head, teases at the slit, and Louis makes another desperate broken sound that prompts Harry to do it again before stroking down. 

“Not yet,” Louis moans but keeps fucking up into Harry’s hand anyway, letting go of his thighs to press his hands into the mattress. His hips jerk up over and over, dick sliding slickly between Harry’s fingers, and Harry licks his lips and ducks down, latching onto the head of his cock, gently sucking. 

He keeps stroking him, his own hips rolling with the rhythm of it, and Louis’ hand finds his hair, tugging, gripping and holding him there; his voice gets louder then, babbling, asking Harry to not stop, and Harry doesn’t, speeding up instead, sucking harder, just at the tip. 

Louis comes with a hoarse shout, drawn out and desperate. He shoots off in Harry’s mouth, cock pulsing in his hand, and Harry tries to take it all, pulling back when he can’t and letting it catch against his lips. 

Louis collapses against the bed, thighs shaking where Harry slides his hands up his legs, and he’s flushed from nose to nipple when Harry crawls up his body to kiss him languidly. He licks his spunk off Harry’s lips, kisses into his mouth lazily, and Harry rolls his hips against him, still hard, back tight with the need to come. 

“Didn’t think you would-” Louis starts and Harry grunts, kissing his ear, then his cheek and neck, biting him gently; he wants to get off so badly it feels like he’s going to explode, dick twitching every time the moves against Louis, but he doesn’t want it to be like this, doesn’t want it to be just this. 

“‘s good, I like it,” he says after a minute. His head is a bit of a fuzz now and he trails his hands up Louis’ arms to his wrists, pins him down and kisses his throat again, right where his heart is beating like a pulsar through his skin. 

He moves up and they kiss again until Louis breaks away, nudging his nose against Harry’s chin. “You wanna get off, yeah? You’re still hard.”

“Yeah, fuck,” Harry laughs, nodding. “We can- can you get hard again? You can fuck me if you want that.” He rubs his thumb over Louis’ nipple and Louis shivers, but shakes his head. It sends a spike of fear through Harry, but Louis catches his face in his hands before it can take root, spreading his legs more to make space for Harry’s body. 

“No, no,” he says. “I want you in me-” He leans up to nip at Harry’s bottom lip. “Come on, I know you want to.” 

Harry laughs against his mouth, excited and surprised, before his mind starts racing. “I do,” he mumbles, kissing him again. “So very much, fuck. Can’t believe you’ll let me-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and leans back to look at Louis, stomach knotted tightly with need. 

Louis is staring back at him, sucking on his bottom lip. “What?” he says. “Let you fuck me?”

“Yeah,” Harry says tightly. “Yeah, that. God, you’re so fucking hot-” He shifts back a bit, kisses a trail down Louis’ stomach to the crease of his thigh, ghosts his breath over Louis’ still flaccid prick; his skin is hot, smooth, and Harry wants to cover every inch of it with his mouth until he’s tasted it all, but feels too impatient to go through with it right now. “Have you got- you know. Lube?” he asks, sitting up again; his cock bobs with the motion, grazing his stomach and it takes every inch of the willpower he’s got left not to reach down and touch himself. 

“Yeah, in my bag.” Louis sits up when Harry moves to get off the bed, holding him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” he says, padding over to his pile of clothes, digging around inside his bag. The lights from the window illuminate his form to varying degrees in different colors, the curve of his back, his arse, his thighs and his cock. Harry has seen him like that before, cursing and rummaging through his stuff on the bus, a welcome comedic relief, but this time it’s anything but that - Harry can’t stop looking, wishes he were close enough to sink his teeth into his arse. Instead he lies back against the bed, propping himself against the headrest. His cock lies heavily against his stomach and looking at it makes him buck his hips, thighs slightly parted, swallowing a few desperate breaths. 

Louis returns, dropping a few sachets of lube next to Harry’s knee; he straddles his thighs, chest rising and falling fast, and fixes his gaze on Harry. “You gonna last long?” he asks, fumbling with one of the little packets, ripping it open finally, and Harry tries to shake his head and nod at the same time, feeling like it’s Christmas morning, overwhelmed and euphoric all at once. 

“A while,” he says finally, and Louis chuffs, rolling his hips against Harry. He slicks his fingers up, looks hesitant for a moment and then says, “I haven’t done this in some time, so I like, I’ll have to stretch for a bit, yeah?”

Harry nods before the words properly register, then sits up. “I can do it,” he starts, fishing for one of the lube sachets. “I want to.” He rips it open, squeezing its contents all over his fingers and uses his clean hand to rub Louis’ hip. 

“You don’t have to,” Louis grunts. He reaches behind himself, eyes fluttering shut and breath stuttering. Harry nudges his hip again and pulls him closer, ghosting his hand between his cheeks. 

“C’mon,” he whispers and reaches up to tug him down by his neck to kiss him, pushing his fingers away to replace them with his own. “Lou, come on, let me finger you, please.” Louis moans and nods jerkily, and Harry worms one finger inside, quickly thrusting it in and out of him; he’s already slick, a little stretched, and not too tight anyway, like he’s been wanting this. 

“Fuck,” Louis moans. “I wasn’t sure- if you- ah- if you- it’s a bit much-”

Harry bites his tongue to keep his hips from moving, speeding his finger up a little. Against his hip, Louis’ dick starts growing hard again, Louis’ breath quickening. “Done it before, you know that,” Harry presses out between tiny kisses, arm straining, and adds another finger. “Fucked boys, I mean. Myself too.” Louis whimpers loudly at that, pushing himself back onto Harry’s fingers, gripping his shoulders hard. 

“Please.” He moans again, drops his forehead against Harry’s. “Do another, do three, I want your cock already-”

Harry chokes on his words, almost comes just from the thought of finally pushing inside, and complies, quickly thrusting another finger inside him and trying to get him to stretch just a little more. He fucks into him a few times until Louis starts riding against him in earnest, sitting back against his hand and cupping his dick. 

He’s making tiny sounds, bouncing, then stops suddenly, lifting himself off Harry’s fingers and pulling himself up Harry’s body. He settles down, Harry’s dick pressing into his crack, and rolls his hips once until the head of it catches against the rim of his hole. 

Harry covers his face, moaning, toes curling, and kisses back blindly when Louis tugs his hand away and presses their lips together again. “Fuck me now,” he starts hoarsely, “I want it so much-”

Harry nods, feeling for where Louis has dropped the lube but only coming up with another two sachets. “Condom?” he asks, and Louis whimpers again, biting into the kiss. 

“Fuck me without,” he moans and sits back again, reaching between Harry’s legs to fit his cock against his hole, rocking against it, not quite letting it sink inside, and Harry swears loudly, thighs twitching. 

There’s a million reasons why this is a bad idea, and Harry can’t find the words to voice a a single one of them, his body burning up with the effort to hold back. “Are you sure?” he presses out finally. “You don’t have one? Do you really want-?” It’s a jumble of words that he hopes make sense, but Louis nods. 

“Didn’t think I’d be shagging anyone,” he explains, an audible strain in his voice. “That was my wank lube.” He laughs and Harry arches his back, pressing the top of his head against the headboard for just a heartbeat, his lungs on fire. He doesn’t have it in him to say no, not with Louis’ hole opening up so beautifully against the tip of his cock, not with Louis mewling as he sinks down finally. 

He’s so tight, much, much tighter than what he felt like around his fingers, clamping down around the head of Harry’s cock, pulling him in even as Louis rocks up again, slowly impaling himself in circular motions. Harry doesn’t realize having said any of that out loud until Louis, groans, half a laugh, and presses out, “That’s ‘cos your prick is bigger than your fingers.” He hisses again and then sinks all the way down, mouth opening and closing, thighs trembling. “‘s huge-”

Harry moans Louis’ name and grips his hips to hold him in place. He thrusts up, moving Louis’ body with his hips until he recovers a little and their rhythms lock with Louis pulling himself up every time Harry withdraws. Louis’ cock bobs with it until he grabs it; he leans back more, digs his fingers into Harry’s thigh, and starts bouncing himself against Harry’s cock, barely letting it pull out before sitting down again. 

Harry allows him to set the pace for a few moments, helping along with a roll of his hips until Louis’ movements grow sloppy and uncoordinated. He could come like this, is so close feels it tickle the tip of his tongue, but he wants Louis to feel good, too, wants to make him come, and wants to see him come _apart_ , so he moves his hands to Louis’ arse and squeezes, kneading the flesh, and tries to coerce Louis to roll off him. 

Louis gets the hint when Harry slaps his bum impatiently, and they roll over. Harry slips out of him wetly, hissing at the sudden cold air, and sits back to guide his cock back inside. Louis shifts, draws his legs up until they hit his chest and Harry sits back against his knees and rocks into him, holding himself up with his arms by Louis’ face. 

“‘m close,” he moans and Louis nods, lips parted, tongue pressed against his teeth. 

“Come on, harder,” he urges, rocking up. The head of his cock is grazing Harry’s stomach now and again, and Harry speeds up a bit, fucking into him hard enough for the bed to move just the tiniest bit. He’s not going to last, he realizes, dropping down onto his elbows, nosing against Louis’ ear, his own voice alien, loud.

“Don’t come inside,” Louis warns and Harry whimpers at the thought of filling him up like that, maybe eating it out of him later. His thighs tense, and he feels Louis’ hands tighten on his arms, holding on, and their voices blend in a mix of moans and babbling, Louis’ voice giving out. Louis comes just a second later, suddenly seizing up, his body coming off the bed, cock pulsing between them, clinging to Harry and sobbing hoarse moans into his ear. 

His body clenches around Harry and Harry feels a rush of heat and color burst up his spine, and jerks away, pulling out to grab his cock and watch his it twitch and spill against Louis’ hole, his thighs and crotch. 

His calves give in a second later, ears ringing from the force of his orgasm, his head nothing but white noise. He slumps to the side, grinning and breathless, and then manages to crawl next to Louis who lets his thighs fall open lazily, knees nudging Harry’s thighs, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon. 

Harry nuzzles against Louis’ neck, kisses the salty skin there, then his chin, rubbing his chest in appreciation. “So good,” he whispers and Louis laughs. 

“I’m going to be walking funny tomorrow,” he comments weakly, but rolls onto his side to press a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. 

“You came twice, don’t complain,” Harry mumbles and Louis kisses him again as if to shut him up. They keep going for a few moments, gentle kisses, nipping each other’s mouths as they come down, Harry’s body growing cold and tired quickly. Their kiss tapers out softly and finally Louis sits up, then stumbles to his feet. 

“I’m taking a shower,” he says, giving Harry a questioning look, scratching his shoulder. Harry grunts and shakes his head, feeling for the blanket. 

“I’m too tired,” he says, curling up, peeking at Louis. He can already feel his thighs starting to hurt, the way his body will ache with it tomorrow and looks forward to it. “So, so tired.”

“So, so disgusting,” Louis says, smiling, and pads off. Harry stays still, listening to the sounds of the shower spilling from the bathroom, eyes heavy; he falls asleep before Louis even returns.

 

*

Harry jerks awake from some dream or another, half-nauseous, with pillow creases on his cheek and the sun glaring through the open window. His vision reels for a few seconds, spinning, before it settles back in and he feels alright enough to rolling onto his back. 

It’s warm in the room from the heat seeping inside, but the air is clean and pleasant, and Harry’s queasiness begins to fade soon enough. He stays like still for a few more minutes, breathing evenly and counting down from one-hundred until it feels safe for him to sit up. 

Louis is not asleep next to him, but Harry didn’t really expect him to either; he’s left a mess of squished pillows and rumpled blankets and Harry stretches languidly, then lies down on his side and pokes one of the pillows, watches as it tumbles off the bed. He wonders how long Louis was in the shower for last night, if he tried to curl up with Harry, wonders if he, Harry himself, woke up and, semi-conscious, tugged him closer.

The thought makes him ache a little, right in the center of his chest, and regret not having gone to have a shower with him. He suddenly feels like he missed the best part of it all: Louis unguarded and warm and clean, potentially looking for post-coital comfort. 

He yawns, stretches his legs again, feeling his muscles protest; the run from yesterday morning and last night have left him sore, toes tingling. He groans and grabs one of Louis’ pillows, burying his face in it, and inhaling the scent. It’s barely there, but enough to make his heart skip a beat, stupidly, and he hugs the pillow close, holding on for a few moments, feeling giddy. 

He drifts off again, not quite asleep for maybe another half hour, and then, still dizzy and warm with sleep, takes a lukewarm shower. He gathers his things from around the room and gets dressed, starts packing everything that’s not already in his bags. Quite suddenly realizes that Louis’ things, just opposite the bed the night before, are no longer there. 

He looks around the room to see if maybe Louis did his packing and then moved his bags around, but there’s no sign of him ever having been in the room safe for the sheets that Harry knows carry his scent. Harry’s stomach drops and he grabs his phone off the nightstand to text Louis, but then doesn’t. There’s a note, scribbled in Louis’ scrawny handwriting resting next to the lamp. It reads:

_H,_

_you were out cold so I drove home ahead! Alberto’s ready to pick you up whenever._

_See you soon,_

_L_

Harry reads it over two more times, his pulse loud in his hears; there’s something weird about the note, something that Harry can’t quite pinpoint, like his gut is telling him that something is off, that Louis wouldn’t just leave early in the morning.

He calls Alberto and asks for a ride home; his voice sounds weird even to his own ears, but Alberto doesn’t ask and promises to be there in fifteen. Harry lugs his bag downstairs, growing more and more restless with each passing moment. He fights down the urge to call Louis, and grabs some breakfast toast and eggs from the brunch buffet in the dining hall and says goodbye to Anita and her husband. 

When Alberto arrives he’s on the verge of calling Louis, sat outside the hotel on a bench with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at his phone. 

“You alright there, lad?” Alberto asks and Harry jumps, barely catches himself and awkwardly gets to his feet, pocketing his phone.

“Hiya,” he says. “Yeah, yeah, I am.” He clears his throat and Alberto gives him a look like he knows exactly that he’s not. Harry’s shoulders his bag and Alberto opens the trunk for him to drop it in, and then opens the rear door for him. 

“Or do you wanna be in the front, H?” he asks and Harry shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. “Might take a nap, if that’s alright? Been a wild night.”

Alberto laughs and, shaking his head, gets in the driver’s seat while Harry climbs into the back. He fastens his seatbelt and juts his hips up to get to his phone as Alberto pulls out of the hotel driveway and heads out onto the road. He thumbs through his phone and texts Louis _Hi, on my way back now, should we get coffee when I’m there?_ , watching as the little arrows multiply and then, after a minute or so, turn blue. He gives it another two minutes, insides growing tighter and tighter, and then finally, holding his breath, calls him. It rings through to voicemail and Harry drops his phone in his lap, exhaling loudly. He tries again, impatient, but with the same results, and buries deeply into his seat, staring at his phone, willing it to do something.

Alberto speeds the car up, and they’re out of the woods a few minutes later; Harry fixes his eyes on the horizon, trying to keep himself from calling Louis again. Suddenly his phone vibrates in his hands and he jerks away from the window, heart racing. 

There’s a new text and Harry, for a moment and stupidly, hopes it’s from Louis, but it’s not. It’s a message from Nick that reads, _you and tomlinson are all over twitter, your publicist is going to have a HEART ATTACK_. Harry inhales sharply and opens the attached screenshot, but it’s only a text headlines about them ‘partying together at a wedding’. He opens Twitter and scrolls through his mentions, finds more headlines and tweets about them attending Louis’ cousins wedding together, rekindled friendships and the few fan pictures that were taken, but nothing else.

He drops his head back, relieved, and then types out a reply to Nick, thumbing his lip, thinking before sending it.

_Sarah’s gonna handle it. Could’ve been SO much worse_

Nick’s reply is immediate and knowing, three emoji question marks followed by:

_lol who’d you shag this time?_

Harry stares at the text for a few moments, sucking his bottom lip, then replies. 

_The man himself_

Nick seems to be typing for the longest time before his answer arrives. 

_the G R O O M?!_

Harry huffs out a laugh and rubs his face. 

_NO. Louis_

More typing that results in no text and then Harry’s phone vibrates with Nick calling him. He picks up and sinks back into his seat, flicking his eyes up at Alberto in the rear mirror. 

“Are you serious?” is all Nick says as a greeting and Harry feels like burying his head in sand and spilling it all to Nick at the same time. 

“It just-” He shrugs. “Fuck, Nick,” he starts again. “I’m so fucked.”

“Literally?” Nick asks with a hint of amusement, some mischief, like he hasn’t at all realized yet just how worked up Harry really is. 

“No, I mean, I think I mucked up? He left without me in the morning,” he says, staring at his knees. “I tried ringing but he won’t answer his phone.”

Nick is quiet for a second and then says, “What happened? Like, start at the beginning maybe, because I’m a bit lost here.”

“Ugh,” Harry makes, sinking down further into his seat. Alberto isn’t watching and very likely isn’t even listening, but Harry lowers his voice anyway. “We just like, were flirting a lot? I think. All weekend. And then maybe I got jealous when he talked to his ex on Friday, during the reception, and then last night we hooked up.” Nick makes a noncommittal sound and Harry continues, “You know, proper hooked up.”

“Uh huh,” Nick says; Harry can hear that he’s trying very hard to hold back, knows Nick well enough to know that there’s nothing more he wants at the moment than to pry Harry’s head open and he appreciates that fact that Nick’s biting his tongue.

“It was fine. He was fine last night.” He pinches his lip between his knuckles, recounting the evening in his head once more, worry spiking up. “He left a note, but it was weird, and _now_ he’s not answering his phone. What if he hates me now?”

“Maybe he’s just passed out at home?” Nick offers and Harry shrugs, but has no way of putting into words why he’s so worried without sounding like he’s overreacting. He knows Nick won’t judge him - far from it - but he feels weird having this conversation on the phone with Alberto potentially listening in. 

It seems that Nick is reading his mind because after a moment of silence he says, “Look, why don’t you try ringing again when you get back to London? See if he’s awake. And if you want you can pop in tonight, I’m having a few people over in celebration of no-work-Monday.”

Harry pulls a thread out of the hemline of his shirt, nodding along; he knows that Nick’s suggestion is reasonable and the best advice anyone could give him, but sort of wishes Nick would have an answer for what’s going on. “You’re right,” he says finally. “I’m probably just getting all worked up over nothing.” 

“Probably,” Nick says gently. He clears his throat and then continues, “So, you’re. Is this a thing? Do you want it to be a thing?”

“Oh.” Harry stops mid-sentence, staring at his hand on his thigh, realizing that he’s not thought about this yet, that he doesn’t have an answer. Nick takes his silence for just that apparently, because he laughs and says, “Sorry, I’m being a nosy prick. Call me when you get to London, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes. He hangs up, turning to look out the window, his mind suddenly racing again. 

 

*

 

Louis is still not picking up when Harry unloads his bags from the back of Alberto’s car, cradling his phone between cheek and shoulder; it keeps redirecting to voicemail when Harry tries to ring him again after he’s done stuffing a heap of dirty washing into the basket and unpacking the rest of his luggage. He sorts through the bits and scraps of paper in his duffel bag and finds the buttonhole - Louis’ buttonhole - at the very bottom of it, still all blue and fresh against the burnt ocher leather inlay; it must have found its way in there when Louis was getting undressed that first night, or later when he was packing his bags. Harry turns it in his hand and collapses face first against his bed, groaning, feeling his chest tighten again.

He had expected Louis to stuff it into his pocket, maybe with some smart comment or another, but he wore the stupid thing the entire night, must have kept it afterwards, too, otherwise it wouldn’t have made its way into Harry’s bag. It’s a little squished from Harry’s clothes now, but Harry wants to imagine that Louis took it off carefully before hopping in the shower and then coming to bed and maybe the fact that it’s here now, and not in the hotel bin is proof enough of that.

It suddenly hurts to think about and he grabs his phone, tapping at the home button, but it’s still quiet. He rolls onto his side and opens the last message he sent to Louis, then scrolls through his sent calls and back up, hovering over Louis’ name for a moment, and then opens a new message to Nick, pretending it’s what he wanted to do from the start.

 _He’s not answering his phone :(_ , he types, deletes it, then types, _So what’s the plan for tonight?_ and hits send, chewing on his thumb. There’s no point wrecking his head, he tries to tell himself, when maybe it’s exactly the way Nick said it was - Louis passed out with FIFA running in the background, phone run out of battery - but Harry’s stomach won’t stop pulling itself into knots over and over. 

He rolls over onto his back, smoothing hair down against his skulls with both hands, and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t even know what he’d say to Louis if - when - he calls back, and every version he’s gone through in his head sounds more loopy than the previous one. 

He doesn’t want Louis to be upset with him, doesn’t want this to be over before it’s even properly started, because he knows there _was_ something there, is so certain of it that it makes him tingly; then there’s the issue with the band and all the rest that he’s afraid to even think about, all the serious stuff that has him hold his breath in an effort not to panic just a little bit. 

“Shit,” he says out loud, punching his fist into the air. He uses the momentum to pull himself up and off the bed, padding back into the kitchen to fix himself some very late lunch, lacking anything else do to. 

His phone remains silent while he puts together some cheese on toast and a smoothie, doesn’t make a peep while he eats, sitting crosslegged on his sofa, with _Friends_ as background noise. He finds some biscuits for pudding, and then dozes off, spread eagle, one leg hanging off the cushions. 

He dreams about a wedding, unsurprisingly, and Louis’ face, and the lake and drowning and air bubbles rising to the surface and popping with weird vibrato noises that sound just like his phone ringing. It doesn’t stop, just keeps getting more insistent, and Harry blinks his eyes open slowly, blindly grabbing for his phone on the coffee table. 

There’s a missed call from Nick and a follow-up text that reads, _seven at mi casa! can you pick up some champagne on the way?_ Harry taps a reply into his phone, still half asleep, and curls up on his side, blinking sleepily at the telly where Ross and Rachel are finally kissing. 

It’s just after five now, and if he wants to go to Nick’s party he should probably clean up a little bit, wash his hair and put on fresh clothes. His limbs are tired, though, heavy like stones, so he stays for a little while longer, finishes watching the episode on almost mute, barely able to hear the voices. 

Louis would have something funny to say, Harry thinks suddenly, Louis would do a voice over with his terrible fake accent, he’d slap his knee at his own joke and smile at him. Harry grunts at himself and hides his face in a cushion, trying hard not to imagine an alternative turn of events, tries not to imagine waking up next to Louis and kissing him awake and driving home with him and falling asleep on the sofa while pushing at each other for more space. 

He inhales and exhales into the pillow a few times, then makes himself get up, frustrated with himself and with his brain and his imagination and the things he wants and needs, and has a shower hot enough to make his arms and chest and thighs go all pink and sensitive, blow-dries his hair and gets ready to go out. He’s done just after half seven, calls for a taxi and finds a box of champagne in the pantry along with a few bottles of the wine he knows Nick likes, trying to keep his head occupied. But Louis keeps sneaking back in, has Harry constantly checking his phone for calls or texts in the car that he - impossibly - missed, and when Nick opens his door when he arrives it must be showing on his face because Nick’s brows knit together and he pulls Harry into a hug before he’s even through the door properly. 

“Let’s get some alcohol in you,” Nick says, squeezing him tightly, and petting his hair, and Harry makes a sad noise and nods against his neck, feeling like he’s twelve. Nick leads him into the living room and pulls his hand up over their heads, announcing, “To this heartbroken heartbreaker!”

Harry laughs, a bit embarrassed, but hugs people back as they come to greet him and tousle his hair; it’s all Nick’s and his friends, just a small circle of people that he’s known for years now, and he soon finds himself squished into a beanbag with Nick a drink in his hand, listening to Aimee talk about the flow of relationships while she rolls another blunt. It’s clear from the conversation that Nick hasn’t told any of them anything other than that Harry probably got his heart broken again - even though Harry is not ready to concede that just yet - but they know him well enough to see that he’s in need of some cheering up.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to hang out with all of them, how at ease he feels here, with all the pressure magically lifted off him. He keeps sipping his drink, Nick playing with his hair and nodding along, leisurely taking puffs of the blunt being passed around between them. He hands it off to Harry, who takes a deep drag, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. He lets the smoke curl from his mouth, nostrils, takes another hit before the first one has quite faded and feels himself slip into white silence for a few seconds, head rushing.

“Better now?” Nick asks from very far away and Harry first nods and then realizes that he’s lying and shakes his head. 

“Still sad,” he says, pulling his knees up into the bean bag, forcing Nick to give up more room. Nick groans as if in pain and moves to accommodate Harry, letting him squeeze under his shoulder while he continues to take slow drags from the blunt.

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” Nick says, petting at his hair again. Harry whimpers in self-pity and presses closer, sniffling. 

“It’s just not like him,” he says slowly, passes on the blunt, trying to finish his drink without spilling it. 

Nick hms. “To be fair it’s not every day you fuck your bandmate,” he says and Harry slaps at his thigh, trying to hush him. Nobody is listening anyway; Daisy has turned up the music and is swaying slowly, humming along, and Harry pulls himself up, face hot from the booze and the weed. 

“I just want things to be alright,” he says. Nick doesn’t say anything and Harry isn’t even sure that he’s heard for a moment, but Nick punches his arm a moment later, smiling softly at him like he thinks Harry is biggest fool on the planet. He probably is, anyway, making everything so dramatic just for a few hours of radio silence. 

The thought stings, though, and he touches his heart. Nick shakes his head at him, but passes him the blunt without taking a hit himself. Harry finishes it off, coughing only slightly, and stumbles to his feet to find a glass of water in the kitchen. 

“Don’t break too much!” Nick calls after him and Harry flips him off, tiptoeing around Pig and the empty bottles of champagne on the floor. He manages to get a cup and then some water, gulping it down thirstily, staring at the party in the adjoining living room section, his neurons feeling like embers, glowing charcoals, almost painful. 

He stays there for a few minutes, sipping his water with focus and determination, until suddenly Aimee waves at him from the sofa. 

“Harry,” she croons. “Harry, your phone is doing a _thing_.”

“What?” Harry asks stupidly.

“It’s ringing,” Nick laughs and Harry almost drops his glass when he starts off into a run, knocking his toe painfully against a bottle; it’s still ringing, Louis’ caller ID flashing, when he picks it off the coffee table and manages to answer, ducking off into the hall and then the bathroom, with Daisy cheering loudly. 

“Hi?” he says breathlessly, closing the door, and dropping against it, his heart racing. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I am. You out?”

“No,” Harry replies. He pushes his hair back, feeling how hot his skin is against his fingers, feeling shaky, realizing how high he really is. “Not really. Just hanging out with a few friends at Nick’s.” 

“Oh, okay.” Louis clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything else. Harry pushes himself off the door and crosses over to the mirror to look at himself, gripping the basin as he leans in. 

“You called me back,” he says and Louis laughs. 

“So it seems.” He seems weirdly collected, calm, quiet. It makes Harry search his own face for answers like he’ll find any and then shake his head at himself. 

“So, what’s up?” Louis asks. 

Harry grimaces at himself one last time and then turns his back on the mirror, head bent. “Dunno,” he starts. “Just wanted to see if we’re alright. Just wanted to make sure we _are_ alright since you know, you left without me.”

It’s two, three, four taps with his toes against the fluffy rug until Louis answers. “Yeah, I had stuff to do. Sorry about that.”

“But we’re okay?” Harry tries again and Louis hms. 

“Of course we are,” he says. “Don’t worry your head, H, you’ll just hurt yourself thinking too hard.” He stops again and Harry listens to him breathing, imagines the way his eyes must be narrowing as he tries to figure out what to say next. “We’re fine, seriously, let’s just forget about it,” he says finally and Harry drops his hand from his hair, letting it swing against his thigh. That’s not at all what he wanted to hear and it hurts that Louis might think that it is. He seems to be taking too long to reply because Louis quickly continues, “Seriously, nothing’s changed.”

Harry shakes his head and then finally, realizing that it’s not something that Louis can actually see, says, “What if I do want things to change?”

Louis laughs again, a short, unamused burst. “You’re so high,” he says. “Go back to your party, yeah?”

“I mean it,” Harry insists.

“Sure you do.” Louis sighs audibly. “You always mean it. Now go have another drink for me, okay?”

“Louis,” Harry starts again. He doesn’t know how to tell him the things he wants to say, doesn’t know if Louis will even hear him out, so he stops himself again, feeling helpless. 

“Harry,” Louis says. “I’ll see you at the next band meeting in a couple of weeks, okay? I think that’s probably best for, you know, the both of us.”

“Please don’t hang up now,” Harry croaks, voice small. He feels like he’s folding in on himself, like he’s being pulled together into a tiny ball. 

“See you,” Louis says and hangs up, leaving Harry to nothing but the disconnect tone. Harry pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at it and redials immediately, but the call gets him nowhere except Louis’ voicemail twice. 

“Shit,” he whispers to himself and steps out of the bathroom, stuffing his phone into his pocket. Nick is waiting outside with a drink and Harry accepts the glass gratefully, gulping down a big sip of what tastes like a terribly mixed coke’n’rum. 

“Well?” Nick says, leaning against the wall, pressing his hand into his hip, and Harry mirrors him, staring at both their feet. 

“He said we should forget about it,” he recounts. “And that it’s best to not see each other for a while.” He gulps down another three sips, wincing, and then hands the glass back to Nick, hugging himself and frowning at him. “He’s being a fucking prick, that’s what.” 

“Maybe,” Nick says slowly, waving his hand around. “Maybe it’s all a bit too much for him right now?”

Harry knocks his head back against the wall in frustration. “He wouldn’t even let me finish.”

Nick starts sipping Harry’s drink, pulls a face, and then knocks it back anyway. He rubs his chin, giving Harry a look like he can read him, like he’s all ciphers, a code Nick can take apart. Harry feels his frown deepen, but bites his lip, stomach in a knot. He’s starting to feel dizzy, head heavy.

“Hey, why don’t you go see him? Bring flowers, something. Woo him. If that’s like- if that’s where you want things to go?” Nick says eventually.

“He doesn’t like flowers,” Harry says. Standing up is becoming harder and harder, so he sinks down the wall until he’s squatting, looking up at Nick. “I don’t know,” he continues. “I just really wanted to come home with him.” He purses his mouth, shrugging, and then feels his body sway dangerously; he’s more dizzy suddenly, from all the weed earlier and the booze just now, and before he’s even realizing it, Nick is helping him up with a hand on his arm. 

“I’m quite unwell,” he says, trying to go for a joke. It comes out a bit pathetic, though, and Nick rubs his arm and walks him past the living room and upstairs.

“Need to be sick?” he asks and Harry shakes his head. 

“Need to lie down, I think.” His stomach does another flip and he pulls a face, letting Nick walk him to the guest room. He drops onto the bed, legs dangling off, staring up at the ceiling.

“What about Louis, though?” he asks. “Maybe I should go see him right now.”

Nick pokes his thigh. “Right now you should _sleep_ ,” he says. Harry sits up and wiggles out of his T-shirt and jeans, toes off his socks and curls up under the thin blanket, but furrows his brows at Nick. 

“Maybe I should call him again,” he tries and Nick tugs the blanket up to his chin, shaking his head. 

“How about you sober up first?” he says; he gets up and flicks off the light. “Night night.” He smiles at Harry and Harry yawns again, finding that he’s too tired too argue, too queasy to think properly. 

“Night,” he says and turns onto his side, closing his eyes. Nick is gone a moment later, the door closed, and Harry, head and stomach spinning, drifts off slowly. 

 

*

 

There’s coffee on the table and breakfast eggs wrapped in clingfilm on the counter when Harry wakes up the next morning; Nick has - according to his note - gone for a jog, but Harry’s sure that he’s just going to end up at the dog park flirting like he always does.

Harry has a cup of coffee from the thermos and eats the eggs cold as they are with a piece of buttered toast, staring out into Nick’s tiny garden. It’s sunny outside and Harry heads outside once he’s finished his breakfast and lies in the grass, eyes closed against the sun. 

Yesterday’s conversation with Louis seems like the faint memory from a dream, like it was years and years ago, but Harry distinctly remembers asking Louis not to hang up. He’s tried to avoid thinking about it but it’s impossible not to - he’s been aching since he woke up this morning, a small and painful pressure just at the centre of his chest, and the more he tries not to think about it, the more insistent it gets. 

Louis hung up on him just like he left him in Brixworth, like he didn’t want to see Harry, like he didn’t want to face him, like he was embarrassed - or just plain serious about forgetting everything that happened in the past three days, and the more Harry goes over their conversation in his head, the more he becomes convinced that maybe Louis really did mean it, that it was just a drunk thing for him and nothing else, that Harry’s impression was completely off, that there was nothing there at all.

He blinks his eyes open, then squints again, face warm. He feels out of sorts, like he’s been misplaced in time and space, and like it won’t right itself until he knows for sure what’s going on, but he’s aware that Louis won’t give up any answers voluntarily, won’t call to make sure Harry is alright, won’t call at all because he said that he wouldn’t. 

There was a time, maybe, a few years back when Louis would have caved, when he still felt responsible for Harry, but Harry realizes that this time has passed, that Louis only got more stubborn when it comes to him. 

He fits his hand over his chest, breathes deeply for a few minutes and then pulls himself up and gathers his things together; he leaves a little note on the kitchen table to say thanks and calls a taxi. It’s a thirty minute drive home, but Harry doesn’t really notice any of it, he doesn’t register paying the driver, doesn’t register getting home, feeling tense enough to snap.

Sitting in his living room, he worries at his lip, scrolling through Twitter, through Louis’ instagram like it’ll give him a clue as to where he is and what he’s doing even though Louis never posts anything on there anymore. His Twitter is also silent and Harry shakes his head at himself, kicks at the floor. 

He curls up on the sofa and starts backreading Louis’ Twitter. It’s dumb, he knows that, but it makes his heart twinge, all these little pieces of Louis that feel so far away now. It gives him a sense of something that he held for only the shortest moment until it was gone again. 

He suddenly regrets having come home. His house feels huge and empty and quiet, and Harry realizes that being alone with his thoughts again is only making him sadder. He cleans the kitchen to distract himself, blasting music, and then rearranges his vinyl collection and his journals, rereading old entries for hours, and tries not to think about what could and couldn’t have been. 

He goes for a run so long he can barely breathe when he gets back and showers too hot and then drafts a text to Louis with shriveled fingers because he feels like he’s going to burst if he doesn’t. 

_I really want to see you, I miss you already_ , he types, perched on his bed, toes pressing into the soft rug. The words sit there for a while until he physically can’t hold his breath any longer and hits the back button without having sent the message. 

He’s had heartache before but never anything quite like this, nothing that feels like he’s slowly burning apart inside. He drops back against the bed, curling his hand around his phone, and holds his breath again until it hurts. It hits him then, when his head starts spinning, that going to see Louis really is the only solution, the only thing he can do, the only way he has a shot at getting Louis to talk to him. His body is suddenly moving on its own, and he rolls off the bed, stumbling and is dressed just a minute later, T-shirt clinging to his still wet back and hair barely dried, and out the door and in the car in under ninety seconds. He wonders why it’s taken him all day to realize that he doesn’t care about Louis being furious with him as long as he gets to see him again, as long as he gets to try just one more time. 

Hands shaking, he pulls out onto the street and heads north just as the sun starts setting. It’s a twenty minute drive, but he makes it fifteen, crossing red lights when he can. 

Louis’ house is dark save for the row of windows Harry knows to be the living room; he finds a spot to park his car and, shivering in the cooling air, hovers in front of the gate for a few minutes, trying to breathe calmly, his heart beating so loudly he can barely hear anything else. Eventually he works up the courage and punches the code into the number pad and lets himself in, jaw tight with anxiety. 

He stops before the front door, staring at the bell. What if Louis won’t even let him in, he thinks, what if he just sends him away again, what if he isn’t even home and it’s just his housekeeper?

He takes another deep breath, steeling himself, and presses his thumb against the bell, letting it ring for a good two seconds. The house remains quiet at first until finally Harry can hear somebody in the hall and then the lock turn. He looks up, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and Louis opens the door, two tenners in his hand. He stares at Harry for a moment and Harry stares back, having forgotten everything that he’s wanted to say. 

“You’re not Pizza Hut,” Louis says and Harry blinks, confused, almost laughs until Louis’ expression changes, his brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?” he asks, mouth set in a tight line.

“I just wanted to talk,” Harry says. He had wanted to open with something else entirely, something a lot better, but it’s all lost. “Just wanted to see you.”

“I told you I’d see you at the next band meeting,” Louis snaps. He shuts the door in Harry’s face before he can even reply or wedge his foot in, and Harry feels his temper flare a bit, stepping closer to ring the bell again and then again. 

“I just wanna talk,” he says loudly. 

“Go away!” Louis shouts through the door. “We’re not doing this today!”

Harry knocks at the door once, twice, and then stops, heart racing. His keychain is pressing into his thigh from where he stuffed it into his pocket hastily just after getting out of the car and he remembers quite suddenly that it carries a duplicate to Louis’ house, like it carries one to all their houses from when they exchanged keys years ago. By pure luck the first key he tries, lets him inside, the hall lit, and Louis, just at the end of it, is staring at him with his mouth open. 

“You gave me a key like, two years ago,” Harry says. He closes the door and leans against it, giving Louis a shrug, trying to go for a smile, but Louis’ frown just deepens further.

“I told you to go home,” he says. “You can’t just-” He waves his hand and Harry takes three quick steps further down the hall, determined not to be turned away. 

“I don’t want things to be like this,” he says. “Can’t we just-”

“I _told_ you to forget about it,” Louis snaps. He ducks out of the hall and Harry follows, almost sprinting after him through a series of rooms and corridors. He manages to corner Louis in the kitchen, and, hands raised in defense, carefully steps closer, breathless from running.

“Louis, I don’t want to forget about it,” he says and Louis shakes his head at him, then looks away. He crosses his arms and leans his hip against the worktop, evidently resigning himself to his fate for the moment. 

Louis is still avoiding his eyes, but says, “You have a minute and then you leave, okay? So talk.”

“I don’t want to forget about it,” Harry repeats carefully and Louis huffs out a laugh and then finally looks at him again. 

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head half time,” he starts, “but this time I know it’s all nonsense.” He wets his lip, eyes sad, and Harry presses his heels into the floor to keep still. “We shagged, it happened, you don’t need to make a big deal out of it.”

That stings and Harry looks down at his shoes, head empty. “It is a big deal, though,” he says because it’s true. He meets Louis’ eyes again. “It’s a big deal to me, and I know it wasn’t just nothing to you either.”

Louis is visibly at a loss for a moment, shifting uncomfortably, and then shakes his head. “Think about the band,” he says slowly like the words hold special meaning, like they will dissuade Harry instantly, and Harry stares at him, chest tight. 

“The band has nothing to do with it,” he says, gripping the edge of the table and frowning. He’s frustrated that Louis won’t get it, and with himself for being unable to communicate what he wants to say.

“It has everything to do with it,” Louis replies more loudly. 

Harry pushes off the table, angry; he hates the fact that Louis is trying to use the band as an excuse, that even though he’s given Harry a chance to talk, he’s still not listening.His blood is rushing in his ears, face flushing. “If this _was_ about the band you would have talked to me right away, and you wouldn’t just have fucking left me after sleeping with me, and you wouldn’t have avoided talking to me for an entire day! I’m not dumb, I can see that you’re avoiding me and I want to know _why_!”

Louis’ jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. “I had shit to do, okay? I’m sorry my entire world doesn’t revolve around you after one shag.” 

Harry sucks his bottom lip in, laughing dryly; it hurts that even now Louis is lying to him, but it hurts even more how well Louis really knows him and knows where to aim to make it sting the most. “You ran away,” he says. “You didn’t have a single thing to do yesterday.”

“How would you know?” Louis cocks a brow at him. “Did you stalk my P.A. too?”

Harry knocks his foot against a chair, squeezes his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Just tell me that it was nothing, okay? Tell me it was nothing to you and I’ll leave.” He looks up at Louis again, tries to appear calm and collected when he feels like he must be visibly shaking. 

A few moments pass in which Louis stares back at him, gaze wavering up and then to the side. Without looking at Harry he eventually says, “It was nothing.”

Harry feels his insides contract and he sinks against the table again, deflating. His hands are definitely shaking now and he holds onto the table to hide it. “Liar,” he says quietly because he wants to believe that, doesn’t want it to have been nothing to Louis. He meets Louis’ gaze and there’s something there that reminds Harry of the look in his eyes just before they kissed for the first time, that thing that Harry mistook for fear. He bites his lip, voice wavering when he says, “I know it wasn’t nothing to you. I know I mean something to you, Lou.” 

“Don’t do this, Harry,” Louis says quietly. He bends his head, hiding his face under his bangs. “I know you feel strongly now because you always do but it’ll, you know. It’ll fade. You know how you are.”

“How am I then?” Harry asks. 

“Head over heels,” Louis says. His voice is a lot calmer all of a sudden, sounding defeated. “Always in love but never serious.” The accusation hangs in the room for a few seconds until Harry can wrap his head around it.

“I am serious this time, though,” he replies and Louis laughs softly. 

“Sure you _think_ you are,” he says, smiling ruefully. He looks hurt in a way Harry has only ever seen him once, maybe twice, and never by Louis’ discretion, always accidentally. This time, though, it’s directed at him, like Harry caused it, like he needs to own it. 

“I’m serious. It’s not nothing to me,” he says, voice breaking a bit. “You’re never nothing to me, you know that.” He takes a step closer and Louis tries to evade, but gives up when Harry touches his wrist for a moment. He’s not looking at him, though, head turned, and Harry feels like crying, doesn’t know what else to say to fix this, gives Louis some space again, retreating. 

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “You think so now, but what about in a week? A month?” He swallows visibly, then looks at Harry. “Of course you mean something to me,” he continues a little more forcefully. “You’re an idiot for even asking me that in the first place. But what’s the bloody point if you’re just going to fall for somebody else when you get bored of me?” His face reddens over the tip of his nose and his cheeks, like he’s embarrassed to say any of that, and Harry exhales in something like relief, knees going weak as understanding washes over him. 

“I won’t, though. Nothing’s ever felt like this before.” He reaches for Louis’ hand again, entangling their fingers and this time Louis doesn’t pull away. “It’s always only been you,” he adds without thinking and realizes that it’s a truth that’s always been there, that he’s just never consciously thought about. 

Louis makes a tiny sound, half a laugh, half exasperated. “ _You_ won’t?” he asks, looking at Harry in disbelief.

Harry nods eagerly, then carefully offers, “At least- at least give me a chance to prove it, okay?” Louis seems to almost smile at that, but keeps looking at Harry like he’s a fool. “Please,” Harry adds and Louis’ shoulders sag a little. He lets Harry tug him closer until their bodies are touching, tightening his own hold on Harry’s hand. 

“Was that it?” Harry asks. “Was that why you left?”

Louis pushes at him weakly, but then gives in and nods. “I didn’t want you to try to convince me that you’re serious, I didn’t want to have this conversation.” He stops, pressing his thumb into Harry’s shoulder. “I never wanted to be one of the many people you fucked, and now look at me. I’m pathetic.”

“No, no.” Harry squeezes his hand and crowds him against the worktop, shaking his head. He feels dizzy from the amount of information, from Louis suddenly breaking open like that, making himself available and vulnerable. “You’re not, I just said that. I got so fucking jealous of Jake because he had been with you. Like, I wanted that, too. Maybe it’s taken me too long to get it, but it’s only ever been you, really.” 

Louis’ expression changes, a strange mixture between hopeful and sad. “Don’t say that if you’re not absolutely fucking sure, Harry,” he says, voice a bit hoarse. 

Harry nods, heart racing. “I am, I’m so sure. I’m so serious,” he replies. 

“Okay,” Louis says slowly, eyes flickering, still looking like he’s not entirely trusting Harry. “Okay.” He stops again, scanning Harry’s face. “So, this is a thing?”

“Definitely a thing, if you want it to be a thing.” Harry feels like he’s in a trance, is nearly scared that he’ll wake up in a moment and it won’t have been real, so he wraps his other arm around Louis’ waist, holds him closer. 

Louis smiles at that, worries at his bottom lip, and then after a whole second nods. “I want that, yeah. I want it to be a thing.”

Harry exhales relieved, grinning. “I think it’s been a thing for a really long time,” he says. 

Louis bites his lip. “How long?” he asks and Harry shrugs, helpless. 

“Dunno, years, probably?” He laughs at himself and Louis snorts. 

“Should’ve told me years ago then,” he says smiling. “Could’ve saved myself a shit ton of heartbreak.”

“I can make up for it?” Harry tries. He tugs at Louis’ hand, leans in, and Louis rolls his eyes at him but kisses him anyway, gently nips at his bottom lip. Harry feels like he can’t stop touching him, rubbing his hip, clinging to his hand, can’t believe that this is real, so he breaks away again and nudges his nose against Louis’. “Is this real?” he asks, draws Louis’ hand up and kisses his wrist to feel his pulse racing, too. 

Louis tilts his head. He looks pensive for a moment, maybe a little like he’s seeing Harry for the first time, and it makes Harry’s heart stop, making him hold his breath. Finally, Louis frees his hand from Harry’s grasp, cups his face and says, “It is. It’s real.” 

 

*

 

There are some facts that Harry feels like he should have known: that Louis hogs blankets; that he doesn’t like to cuddle right after sex but will press up against Harry’s back just before they fall asleep and yet somehow end up curled against him with his head on his chest whenever Harry wakes up. That he enjoys kissing Harry in front of the others just to make them jeer, that he’s so much better now at ignoring paps than Harry is, that he sits through a meeting with their team without moving a muscle or giving an inch, and then curls up, shaking on the sofa with Harry like he’s the only one allowed to see him lose it. 

Harry has known him for six years, lived with him for the better part of those, shared rooms and buses and tiny vans, and yet wakes up to something new every morning, to Louis readily defenseless, and every day they spend together or apart, reveals yet another thing about Louis that he somehow hadn’t known before, like Louis is bit by bit breaking down all his walls for Harry.

Once Louis lets him back in it’s like they pick up where they left off, continue as they should have a long time ago. It’s easy, then, like riding a bike. 

It’s as if they never stopped being _them_ , not even once.

***

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://flimsi.tumblr.com)


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